


Sovereignty's Price

by Mithrakana



Series: The Chronicles of Fen'Namas [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoption, Adultery, Colemance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff Now Plot Later, Frotting, Growing Pains, Identity Issues, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Light Bondage, M/M, Makeup Sex, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Only Fools Envy Prodigies, Past Domestic Violence, Prostitution, Sequel, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Today Class Let's Talk About FEELINGS, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:36:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 107,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrakana/pseuds/Mithrakana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fen'Harel will never let you out.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>----<br/><b><span class="u">Eros key. Intensity varies.</span></b><br/>*Una/Solas<br/>°Cole/Veyla<br/>¬Varric/Lace<br/>•Dorian/Thalis<br/>----<br/>10-22-15. Still on indefinite hiatus. Still cherished, written daily in my heart. Positive outlook on one day having time again!</p><p>xoxo,<br/>~Mithrakana</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The State of Elves These Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Forward **
> 
> Greetings, beloved reader, and welcome to _Sovereignty’s Price_. I can only assume you’re here because you read and liked _The Rise of Fen’Namas_. I am thrilled that you enjoyed it! Likewise, I am thrilled to have you back! 
> 
> _The Rise of Fen’Namas_ was my maiden voyage into writing. _Sovereignty’s Price_ is my first sequel.
> 
> You know me well enough by now. _Sovereignty's Price_ is about how freaking _great_ it is to love somebody else - as a parent, as a friend, as a savior, as a teacher, as a soulmate. This fic also explores the many splendid ways we come between ourselves and happiness. As I am a character-lover, you’ll watch each day picked apart from many points-of-view. (Perhaps, at times, too many.) 
> 
> If you need strong plot to get you through 100,000 words, you may be shaking pointy sticks at me come Chapter 35 or so. If you've ever had to conquer your own demons and discover "happy" for yourself, odds are you may appreciate this rambling little piece.
> 
> Regardless, I greatly value your readership and any advice you wish to share.
> 
> Humbly and in friendship, 
> 
> ~Mithrakana
> 
> PS: If you find you cannot stomach _Sovereignty’s Price_ , I encourage you to return soon and try _[Book 3]_. It will more closely resemble _The Rise of Fen’Namas_ in terms of pace. 

* * *

 

 _Namadahlan_ was very much a peaceful place. The woods themselves were virgin white, and one could stand and see the stretching grass beneath the trees for miles. Game animals came soon enough, though all moved with halting caution through the newness of the place. All, that is, save fish a’glinting in the streams; why, they took on _just_ fine.

“A death grip is not necessary. Let your weapon have its way. Relax.” The hands that built _Namadahlan_ gave thin shoulders a jiggle to ease them from her ears. Solas gently thrummed three fingers on her clenching knuckles, took her elbow in his hand and guided it to pivot with not one remark about her Dalish origins and total lack of skill. 

If she knew the sky-eyed ghost who grinned and stopped in passing to observe, Veyla would seize up and die.

“I _stink_ at this.”

Solas placed his hand upon her back. “Self-hate is the vestige of a childish mind, _da’len._ Take a breath and loose again. Shoulders down.” He palmed the joints that crept once more before stepping back to give her space.

She fired, she _wildly_ missed. The creatures in the woods around her grew a stride more confident, tittering amongst themselves about the state of elves these days. As though she could understand their jibes, she threw her bow to the ground and shoved the quiver from her shoulder with a stomping snarl. Her secret admirer slid his gloved hand o’er his mouth to hide a chuckle.

Solas would not have it. He did not need to hold her fast to freeze her in her tracks. **“Enough.** I was mistaken in granting you this lesson. Your moody temperament is not suitable for weaponry. Tomorrow, we resume the texts.”

Her mouth fell open, her arms went limp as she bobbed up and down with pleading nerves. “ _Wha-a-at!_ But _Solas,_ you _said_ I was – “

A hand waved in her face, dismissing as he turned to shun and walk away. “I did, and I was wrong. You are not ready, child. Your girlish bleating tells the truth of it. Two weeks behaving proper, and we’ll see.”

 _“Ugh!_ You’re such a _liar!”_

“Very well. Five weeks it is.”

The old elf smiled inwardly as he listened to her meltdown at his back. He passed Cole in leaving, speaking low. “If you keep indulging her, young man, she’ll never act her age.”

Cole’s eyes beneath his hat brim never left her, and he smiled as he straightened up from leaning on a tree. “I hope you’re right, _hahren._ She’d be no fun with manners.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head as Cole made his way towards the stillborn archery lesson. Before Solas stepped from earshot, he heard her grumbles turn to giggles in the air.


	2. The Hurt Will Always Come

Stairs of crystal sprang to being and fell away as Solas carved his climbing path. His thin-aired steps were slow with thought as he approached the white-planked dais high above the glinting canopy.

The Mercy Wolf may well have left for Denerim by now, so adept was she at rising with the sun, so pressed was she for time. He’d hardly seen her face these past few weeks, such were the demands of her diplomacy.

No, more than that. More than unity’s demands. They slept apart, they dreamed apart, they rarely shared their meals. The cherished braid that glinted on his wrist, magicked clean from blood and tar weeks passed, was all the Dread Wolf touched of her. Though his face kept its secrets, his mind sighed pain as he recalled her reaction to his trespass on her tortured dreams. Quite absolutely, “No.” He’d made no loving gesture since, and she did not seem to miss it. 

He’d known invisibility at her behest a season back, that dragging time when he denied her love and truth. In giving both, he fixed it all and claimed her for his own.

A hundred crushing sadnesses now locked her heart away, and she denied his help. Though she gave him not a word of it, and though he’d learned through harsh repeating the futility of speculating on her mind, he knew these truths for certain. He’d been through much alike himself, lifetimes ago, and knew it could be years or never ‘fore her heart returned to love him.

He missed the intimations of her mind so badly he could hardly smile.

And lo, here she was, alone as always, looking down upon her forest from atop its tallest tree, unmoving body stately and serene. The river of her tresses kept her back in days of peace, lustrous in golden contrast ‘gainst her silver-spun gown. He mirrored the placement of her hands, folding fingers at his back as he crossed the whitewashed platform in the open air.

Not one hushed _vhenan_ since standing naked in the fray. He found her side, his gaze followed her own, his hands that ached to touch her kept their place. Her voice came, only gentleness, eyes scanning the unfolding scene through shim’ring leaves that yield transparent from above.

“Lace is so dear to all of us, helping as she has. I stand helpless by and watch, while with each rising sun she scours the land and brings my people home.”

He hummed acknowledgement and watched the dwarf with tattered Dalish charges far below. There was Thalis, giving wing to this unknown clan’s fidgeting new Keeper. Dorian was there, and without hearing Solas knew the rote directions he announced with sing-song pluck as he ticked off counting with his fingers in the air. He’d say:

“Here we are! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to _Namadahlan_. You’ll find your Vallaslin are gone for good, **as I explained.** No grousing, now, I _warned_ you. You _are_ here by choice, yes? The City Elves are to the east, across the stream; keep _west_ , please, if you can’t play nice. You are free to come and go here as you please.  If you wish for transit, seek an Emissary such as myself. Meals are served beneath that honking sucker of a tree at sun-up and sun-down. That’s twice a day. Ah, and there _is_ game to hunt, if you prefer to kill your food with sticks. Thalis will explain the elfy parts. Good day.”

He heard a long breath through her nose, caught her arms folding beneath her breasts out of the corner of his eye. He turned his face, his eyebrows rising mild. Her countenance was grim.

“My Lady. Something troubles you.”

Her piercing eyes scanned outraged, helpless. She did not look at him. “They bring no children. Not _one_. See it in their bodies, in the way they hang their heads and float like ghosts.”

He tilted his head a little, knowing sorrow knitting on his brow. For the first time in weeks, he tried. “Fen’Namas. I am sorry for your suffering, but the hurt will always come.  I would not have you mourn alone.”

Her eyes found him then, hurt beyond all reasoning. Furious, he realized, with _him_. “You offer me comfort, Fen’Harel, after you make _this_ would-be sanctuary a gift to me? Your cursed runes give my people no _choice!_ They have lost enough against their will! Stealing their heritage, no matter how misguided it may be, paves _no_ softness in their hearts for us. Bare-faced insult stings like salt to mortal injury, and nothing more.”

To be misunderstood pricked a sore spot in his heart, and though he ached for her, his heckles rose. “Thrice now, I have explained. **You** want to wake my brothers, Fen’Namas. Would you have your people bound to wills more fickle yet than mine? Was it not you who _asked_ me to devise a way to free the Dalish, months ago?”

An angry gesture in the air, she turned her body full to glare him down. “It could have _waited._ You did not _ask._ Do I seem in undue rush to act?”

His blue eyes narrowed, his face turned half-away as he glared back. “I did not _ask_ , Una, because you are a stubborn, willful woman, as of late devoid of reason. Your people will – “

A finger in his face, then, and she snapped. “Do _not_ stand there and tell me what my people will do, Solas. You know _nothing_.   ** _Nothing_**.”

His voice rose to meet her own, two gods yelling noisy in the sky. He felt as though he hollered reason at his deaf and moping former self, not at the elf he loved. “ _Fine!_ Perhaps you’re right! Perhaps I do know nothing of **your** people. You tell yourself I built this place to hurt you? _Fine!_ But you _insist_ on suffering alone, I see it bitter you with every passing day. You stand up here morose, refusing comfort. You greet _none_ of them to mark yourself as caring, and _I_ am the monster for building you this place.

“I do not hold you to the words of love you made me when I brought you back, and I do not hold you to the tenuous forgiveness you then granted. But I hold you to your _people_ , Una, and the burdens of your station. You do them more disservice than the Dread Wolf ever could, moping in the sky while they grope blindly in the dark. If you will not have _my_ comfort, find someone else. I tire of begging you to get over yourself.”

For once, he left her speechless as he stormed away.


	3. Mister Rutherford°

His routine these days ran thick with the simple joys of living as a man. Mornings breaking bread with friends, evenings much the same, the days between spent trav’ling Thedas, giving folks a choice. Amaranthine one day, Denerim the next, and often he would spend the night. Cole came to know Ferelden one Alienage at a time, and he took great pride in helping without killing.

Today he enjoyed the pleasures of his little Pola sitting on a stool beside him, singing nonsense as he watched his idol shave and kicked his feet. The elfkit played at a skill he’d never need with an invisible blade, tilting his jutting chin _just so_ to mimic Cole, pulling his imagination o’er the edge of his tiny jaw. Once finished with his own face, Pola practiced phantom shaving on the patient, growing pup.

Cole marveled, laughing as he watched the child’s reflection in his wiped-down foggy mirror, his own face half-finished.

“Silly, Elgar doesn’t want to shave! …Even if he had a beard, I think that end is wrong.”

A loud knock then, and a knowing tone of mock-severity. “Pola Lavellan, I’d better not find you in there bothering poor Mister Rutherford!”

 _"Mamae!”_ Pola squeaked, and before he could dart under Cole’s grooming table, the boy was gently scruffed by his pajamas and plucked up from the hardwood floor.

“Little man, you lied again! You’ll get us both in trouble. _Oof,_ you’re getting _heavy!_ C’mon, you!” An admonishment most empty as Cole tossed the giggling child over his bare shoulder, moving to answer one of the only doors in _Namadahlan_ wearing naught but half a face of lather, a towel, and a sheepish smile.

“Oh, Mister Rutherford, I’m _so_ sorry! Did he wake you up again? Come _here_ , you naughty little elfkit!” She pinched his nose, and Cole laughed as he gave him up, voice rising to be heard over Pola’s squawking testaments and his mother’s swift rebuttal.

“M’not an _elf,_ mamae, M’a _man!_ ”

_“Hush, you!”_

“He’s always welcome, Marli. Don’t be sorry.” They shared a smile then, and it meant more than he realized. If Cole could read the widow’s mind he’d blush and grip his towel, he’d stutter for an hour. As it stood, he was out of touch with the subtle language of a woman’s eyelashes. The only flirting Cole could recognize came from someone else.

Her cheeks went barely rosy, her gaze fleeting down his body as her smile grew wide. She nodded thanks and turned to walk away. “Come now, Pola. Call your pup. Perhaps we’ll see Mister Rutherford at breakfast.”

“Mamae, I already _had_ brekfist!”

“Not with me, he didn’t!” Cole called after them, exchanging raspberries with the outed, lying boy. Unsummoned, Elgar snaked through Cole’s ankles to follow his family. Cole shook his head with chuckles as he stepped into his little whitewashed home and closed his door.

\---

She stewed with her back against the wall beneath his only eastward window. Marli was taller, prettier, _stronger,_ older, better with a bow. Her sulking almost stayed her peeking. Almost.

He was standing by his mirror again, he meant to finish up his face. Time left his foggy mirror crystal clear. The human act of shaving was exotic fantasy to her, so _manly._ She could not wait to watch.

His stringy hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, save locks too short that dripped behind his ears. He grew it out to please her, and she knew. His bare back was raked with scars that saved her life _,_ scars that made him _hers._ His towel was riding low upon his slender waist from the morning’s brief commotion, teasing her shameless eyes with the slightest intimation of a flaxen secret he guarded from her prying will quite fiercely. She devoured his naked stomach, the angles sharp and clean and out of reach.

She heard him start to whistle, and her heart went sick with want. _And look, he reads while he shaves – he’s always reading._ The corners of her mouth went curly like the steam-wrecked pages as he hunted for his dog-eared place with his fingertip, flipped the book open on his grooming table, dropped his eyes and pulled his gleaming blade. She wondered why he had a mirror. He didn’t seem to need it.

There were bright red little fruits in a dish beside the book, she’d never seen the like. He popped one in his mouth, and she wondered at the taste as she watched him chew. It was always berries with him, or vegetables, or bread. He ate like a songbird, and she found it charming.

It was over far too quickly. _Oh,_ she loved to watch his supple wrist work wonders with that shining blade, to see his jaw exposed and clean, to hear him making happy, simple music with his mouth. She longed to poke the fluffy foam that lingered by his ear, to stroke the crisp freshness of his face.

He cleaned his blade, he set it down with a clink. His blue eyes left the book for just a moment, looking for something. He straightened, moved to walk before the mirror - and his whistling abruptly stopped.

She ducked and put her forehead ‘gainst the wall, ears pricking with eager listening, heart racing, eyes boring holes in smooth white boards, a tense and playful squeal rattling against the seals of her throat. She was grinning and blushing so hard she’d surely break her face. But, she didn’t leave.

He took his sweet time walking to the window; she could hear his footfalls, even without shoes. She _knew_ the way he moved.  His audible and ominous approach must be on purpose.

He eased the window open just as slow. She felt a drop of water from his hair atop her head as he leaned out, thrumming his fingers on his windowsill with a slow and noisy _tsk, tsk, tsk_. She pushed away from the wall enough to tilt her head back and look up into his lidded eyes, his eyebrows set to stun her.

“Morning there, Pretty. Lose something?”

She found her feet, shrugging with disinterest as she brushed her knees and looked off to the side. She was the color of the berries on his table. “I was looking for Pola, he wasn’t at breakfast.”

“ _Ahh._ He left.”

“…Oh. Thanks.”

He leaned down on his elbows, folding his forearms on the windowsill as he continued to gaze down on her with a knowing smile. She was still helplessly aware of his naked shoulders. His eyebrows quirked with a challenging question. “So…”

“So?”

 _Chuckle._ “What’re you thinking?”

_I want to close your curtains, steal your towel, and make you chase me around your house to get it back._

“Nothing.”

“Huh. You _sure?"_

The smuggest expression she could find, and she stuck her nose in the air as she tore her eyes away, turning her back to him. Tittering laughter undermined her severity. “Of _course_ , stupid, if I was thinking I’d _know_. The way Solas gets after me, I avoid thinking every chance I get!”

He laughed at her, and his hand found her shoulder from above.  She shrugged it up against her cheek with a blushing giggle, backing into his touch. His curious fingers wandered on her ear and made her shiver. His voice abandoned sultry teasing, going simple with love.

“I’ll miss you today, Pretty.”

She tilted her head back against the wall to look up at him, and they smiled together. “Where is it this time?”

He didn’t answer. He brought his hips against the windowsill and leaned out swift to kiss her upside down, his fingers spreading through her hair. She got up on tiptoes to return the gesture, giggling against his grinning mouth as her heart raced with delight.

He smelled like soap and steam, his chin was silk against her nose. She reached up to explore his jaw, found it smooth and firm. Her feisty kiss pulled his willing lip between her own, and he slid his rare and treasured tongue into her mouth.His sweet fruity taste set her cooing, and she knit her fingers in his yellow hair to pull him closer. _  
_

She heard voices coming, and she didn’t care. He recognized them faster, and he _did._ He parted from her with the quickness of a ghost, breaking their delicious kiss with a frustrated groan. He didn’t slam his window in her face, but he may as well have; without a word, he disappeared into his little house and left her yelping up at nothing.

 _“JERK! Fine!_ Go on your _stupid_ trip!”

“ _Da’lenlin._ What are you screaming about _now?_ You will scare the morning game for miles.”

She spun around to find her brother feet away, walking side-by-side with Aaran on the way to breakfast. His face looked dark and somber, as it always did these days. Her eyes went piggledy with shock as Thalis stopped to glare at her, unamused and demanding an answer. Cole's wet kiss shone with secrets on her guilty bottom lip.

Cole emerged from his house like an angel with damp hair, dashing in his straight-shouldered Emissary uniform of creamy lambskin embossed with scrawling heraldry. How did he dress so _fast?_ As it had countless times by now, his new-found silver tongue saved her dumbstruck hide.

“Apologies, Keeper. Your sister was just rousing me for breakfast; I am running late this morning.”

“Ahh, good morning, Cole Rutherford. More City Elves today?”

She watched Cole’s gracious nod as they all fell in together. She fought a smirk and wondered if he'd ever tell the truth about his name; she doubted it. He was such a _liar._ She _loved_ it. “Ah, good morning, Keeper Thalis. Yes sir, the Kirkwall Alienage today.”

Her eyes went wide with betrayal at his side. Suddenly, she realized why he’d slipped her a kiss instead of words when she asked after his day. She grabbed his sleeve, forgetting her brother’s stern judgment. “ _Kirkwall!?_ Cole, you _sneak!_ Take me with you!”

He chuckled nervously and patted at her hand, cringing with the scolding. “You know I would, Veyla, but you haven’t learned your weapon yet. Solas won’t – “

 _“FENEDHIS!_ ” She jerked his sleeve before she let go, giving him a frustrated shove that earned her scolding swift and harsh from her brother.

She stewed on her lacking combat skills all the way to breakfast, jealous of Cole’s inevitable romp with Varric, jealous about Marli. Bitter most of all about the teasing kiss, _always_ teasing, never near enough.


	4. You Sound Like Solas

She sat with her bare toes hanging o’er the edge of her high-boughed vantage, hugging her folded legs against her chest as she watched the hustling breakfast down below. She’d always loved breakfast. In truth, this ritual was wholly her idea.

Her wounded heart _should_ soar with prideful joy to see her people breaking bread at the same sprawling tables as their City cousins underneath her mighty tree. Sadly, she was numb to the wonder of it. When she looked upon her people now, she could only see her failures and their deaths.

_There is my darling Veyla, snatching at free biscuits like they’re something she can steal. I will see her wedding day before I put her in the ground._

_Here is her brother and her Keeper – he, too, I will bury._

_And sweet Cole, so handsome in his mortal prison, a ghost of his ghosting former self. Even rare, immortal spirits are not immune to my mistakes. I could have kept him, but no. I will see him dead one day, and the boy who rides his heels like a doting little son._

Her eyes closed with pain, her head slid back, she swallowed hard. She remembered with regret the day that Solas brought her back, her ecstatic joy at starting fresh. _Now,_ she would make a difference. _This time,_ she would get it right, mend the mistakes she’d made. And if she didn’t – well, at least she’d live forever. She could always try again, and she would always have his love.

And then the morning came. She woke in tears beside her hard-won lover. As the blame sank home, she came to know self-hate.

If she had waited, just _one_ night, to love him. If she hadn’t walled herself away with selfish lust, ignoring how the devil nipped her heels. If she hadn’t cost herself a _week_ abusing poison, if she’d only let him walk away and left the thing _alone,_ her people would still be alive.

The price her people paid for her to have his love was much too high. Though she ached with love for him, she could not stand to _look_ at him, the _guilt_. She wanted to weep in his arms for an eternity or more, she wanted him to lay a hand upon her mind and give her dreams of peace. But, she refused. She did not _deserve_ it.

She’d slept alone and lonely ever since.

 _Oh,_ the nightmares. Wading to her knees in gore, the devil raped and flayed and drowned her in the endless blood-filled mires of her kin, their faces staring, watching smugly just. She willed this on herself, a tooth-clenching flagellant of mental suffering with every passing night. After a week, she didn’t need to sleep to see it; she saw it all around them now, while they ate their breakfast, while they laughed and waited innocent for death.

Yes, death. It hit her days after the war, at the great funeral for all the soldiers lost beneath her banner.  Even if she _could_ make this world a better place – five lifetimes spent putting the City Elves on equal footing, twenty spent abolishing slavery in Tevinter – _everything_ she grew to love would die and leave forever.

The disconnect was instant and profound. The deaths of every soul she’d ever cared for buried her alive. She could not look her loved ones in the eyes.

And so she stayed here in the treetops where only Fen’Harel could reach, and she watched them all. She saw deaths, past and future. She wept and told him none of it, denied herself his comfort. She watched his eyes grow distant, disappointed. She watched as he regretted every part of her, and came to know a whole new level of self-loathing.

When she spoke to him, she hardly heard herself. That is, _when_ she spoke. They weren’t speaking anymore, not after yesterday.

Yesterday. Denerim. Somehow, she found her feet. An audience with King Alistair was hard enough to wrangle, and she was meant to keep appointment yesterday. Somewhere deep inside, the Una she could scarce remember found her sense of duty.

She hadn’t left the dais in days, she hadn’t changed her clothes or bathed. She did not know it, but she was beautiful in spite of all. Where Solas preferred stairs, she summoned up a crystal disc and stood still in her descent. Of course, she came aground with the tree t’wixt her and bubbling breakfast.

Braids, the woman in her said. Diplomacy with royalty is battle, and battle calls for braids. Deft hands moved without thinking in her hair, her eyes set in the direction of the private little glade that was _meant_ to serve as her quarters, if she’d ever come down from on high and stay there.

A whooping, startled yelp, she tripped on fleeting something and fell flat upon her face. Another thing she’d surely never done.

“Little man, watch whe – … _Una?”_

She was in the middle of collecting herself when Cole swept her up into a fierce embrace. His touch brought disobedient tears blooming in her eyes. She hadn’t had the courage to face him; they hadn’t spoken since the canyon. _Gods,_ she could not _bear_ to think of losing him.

He was so excited, he began to lose his language. “Looking, waiting, he says he doesn’t know, _weeks_ – I haven’t – _Where did you go?_ Come to breakfast, I’m late, but – Yes. Come to breakfast first. She’ll want to see you!”

She thought out loud as she drew back enough to look at him, marveling with her fingers in the hair beside his face. She lost her worries over his death when she saw vitality glowing there like countless stars. Pola grew jealous and bored, and promptly returned to his mother.

“Oh, _Cole_. Look how _handsome_ you are. Not a year since I cut your hair – it grows so _fast_.”

He must have noticed her tears. She watched his countenance go aching as his eyes rushed o’er her face. He did not let her go.

“You died, Varric told me. You died, and you didn’t come to me. Tell me what’s hurting.”

He sank to the ground with her, refusing to let go. She touched his smooth cheek as her tears spilled on her cheeks. Though he smiled at her touch, his eyes questioned her relentless. “You are _such_ a man now, Cole. You shave. Is that cologne, sweet thing? I miss you _so_ much.”

One hand came to rest atop her own upon his cheek, the other wiping at a tear on her face. He started speaking slow, as though she were concussed or otherwise confused. “You don’t have to miss me, I’ll always be here. But, you have to _tell_ me. I can’t find or hear you when you hide.”

Her lips went tight. She shook her head no while he nodded yes.

“I can’t, I – “

“You can, you have to. Don’t you love me?”

Her eyes flashed. In spite of the emotions welling in her heart, she laughed at the humanness of his manipulative little jab as she sniffed back snot. Her forehead found his shoulder, and he squeezed her tight the way he always used to when she’d go moping over Solas, back when things were simple. It was not her first time weeping in the arms of he she fancied as a son. “Oh _Cole,_ of course I love you. Don’t be silly.”

He rubbed her back, pressing his cheek to her head. “Then you know how bad it hurts to watch you cry in silence. _Please.”_

She felt more comfort now than she’d felt since waking on the morrow of her resurrection. She took a deep breath against his neck and stilled before she spoke, a whisper only he could hear.

“It’s all my fault, Cole. My people died because of me. I’m the reason Corypheus found them, I wasted my time, I - ”

He shook his head, putting her at arm’s length to look into her eyes. “Corypheus killed a _lot_ of people, not just yours. You _died_ to stop him. Your people aren’t all gone. They’re here, and they love you. They don’t _blame_ you. You make the world better, not worse, and everyone knows. You should come to breakfast.”

Her eyes found the ground. “They may not blame me, Cole, but they should.”

His voice came soft and gentle. He guided her chin up with a smile. “You sound like Solas, the way you hate yourself. Don’t you blame him? Don’t you think he did this?”

Her green eyes trembled aghast, her face pained at his name. “ _No,_ Solas _built_ this place, he’s been taking care of everything while I – “

“The orb, whispers and kisses in the dark, lies created questions and you _had_ to answer. He _wanted_ this.”

She pushed his hand away, her face going angry. “Cole, stop. This is _not_ his fault.”

His hands yielded. He folded his arms, looking at her as though he were scolding a child. “Right. My reasons sound wrong and awful, just like yours.

“Corypheus did it. Not you, not Solas, not anyone else. And it’s _over_. You’re a good person. Stop blaming yourself.”

Her lip quivered as she nodded and smiled. He pulled her into another hug, squeezing tight enough to force her breath. She let him, and she liked it.

“You’ve changed so much, Cole. You grow so fast.”

They broke the hug together, finding their feet. He brushed dismissively at grass stains on his leathered knees. “I’ve had to! It’s hard, helping when you can’t hear the truth. I don’t know how you’re so good at it.” A dashing smile, and she pinched his cheek while squinting. Her eyes were dry of tears.

“ _You’ve_ been spending too much time with Veyla, sweet thing. I’d know that cheap brand of flattery anywhere.”

They laughed together, and she brushed his hair from his face. “Where are you headed today?”

He balked at her, jolting straight with a start. “Shit, I’m so late! Kirkwall – I’ll be back in time for your coronation; I hope I see you sooner! I love you!”

Her eyebrows jumped at his language as she watched him run a few steps before stumbling to a stop and rooting in his pocket for his Emissary stone. He palmed the thing, placing the back of his clenched fist against his forehead. He concentrated for a moment before he flashed with brilliance into nothing.

 _Gods,_ she loved that boy, and _oh,_ did she feel better. Though her heart was heavy still with immortality and loss, the steps that rushed her to the glen for changing came with ease. She found she was looking forward to meeting with the King.  She fussed at braids with quickness, making for the stately dresser Solas brought for her from Skyhold.

And then she stopped.

_Coronation? …What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 has a theme song! You didn't know?
> 
> [Blood Red Shoes: Cold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_iSa_xGRgQo)
> 
>  
> 
> _Keep me from you_  
>  _I don't want to_  
>  _Be around_  
>  _Anyone_
> 
>  
> 
> _You are free_  
>  _To let go_  
>  _Follow, slowly_
> 
>  
> 
> Cold! Cold! Heart! Heart!
> 
> Take a step out into the daylight!  
> I don't wanna fight  
> For it all  
> And forget it  
> When we fall
> 
> You and I are moving the same way!  
> I don't wanna fight  
> For it all  
> And forget it  
> When we fall
> 
>  
> 
> _I see your face_  
>  _Look at me_  
>  _Like_  
>  _I'm nothing_  
>  _I believe in you -_  
>  _Something is happening._
> 
>  
> 
> Cold! Cold! Heart! Heart!
> 
> Take a step out into the daylight!  
> I don't wanna fight  
> For it all  
> And forget it  
> When we fall
> 
> You and I are moving the same way!  
> I don't wanna fight  
> For it all  
> And forget it  
> When we fall


	5. Find Me If You Change Your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know my policy - better scant than nothing for a day.
> 
> A moment to refresh and orient you to Kirkwall. Old, large port city atop a cliff, docks below. Key hub for trade. Neighborhoods range from fancy to _really_ bad. Originally one of the greatest cities in the Tevinter Imperium, Kirkwall was also under Orlesian rule for a time. Violent history of slave trading, rebellion, etc. Magisters sacrificed slaves for blood magic on a massive scale. This is not King Alistair’s turf, it’s a self-governing city. Everybody and their brother wants to take over. Lucky for us, we know a gal.
> 
> During DA:I, Hawke surrendered her position as Viscount (boss lady) because Templar drama. In my post-game Thedas, she has regained her seat from Provisional Viscount Bran. No more fleeing Kirkwall for Hawke and Fenris.
> 
> To tide you over, I would also mention: Last night, I linked a theme song in the notes of Chapter 4! It's not for everyone, but I enjoy an occasional song to complement something I've read. Good jams, regardless.  
> \-----

Like many things in life, no amount of reading could prepare Cole's noble heart for its first humid breath in The City of Chains. The ghosting shadow of the spirit in his soul couldsensethe thinness of the Veil, the history of suffering in magnitudes immeasurable to most. He heard the ocean whisper far below at cliffs of black. He saw the earthen streets that sprawled and wound in ancient glyphs of malice.

A coastal rain was hammering the city, and Cole did not have a hat. The hard-packed soil beneath his feet went treacherous and slick, each raindrop splashing filth upon his ivory boots. _Everything_ in Lowtown came in hues of gray and black, dank air held the smell and taste of soggy offal. Though the market where he found himself was bustling and alive in spite of rain, to Cole the place screamed death. Oppressive buildings leaned in overhead, left him feeling dwarfed and tongue-tied. Kirkwall pulled white virtue from his stately uniform like sucking smoke.

He could not believe that Varric lived here, that he _loved_ this awful place.

The Emissary’s gait, straight-spined and sure, spared him the acquaintance of the cutpurses who preyed on well-dressed men while drawing the attentions of… _others_. Though usually quite pleased to be gazed upon in passing like a true and honest person, he found the prying stares and whispers of these made-up ladies languishing in doorways quite unsettling.

A painted woman approached him, sauntering across the muddy street in likewise muddy skirts. His feeling mind observed her eyes as sad, though she was grinning fake and wide. Many were the wayward whores he’d stopped to comfort in his ghosting past. He stopped now, of course, and gave a caring smile.

Cole forgot to mete the softness of his voice, his words nearly consumed by falling rain. Though he thrilled to help the lost and was an artist now at crafting charismatic lies to hide his love, shy tendencies crept forward when he did not keep his mind. Still, she heard him, for she was drawing near.

“My lady. Do you seek asylum?”

She came too close, words crooning as she looked him up and down. Her shameless hand came firm against his trousers, and she pressed his body with her bound-up breasts.

“If that’s what gets you hard, _sweetheart.”_

For all his grace, Cole recoiled so fiercely that he nearly lost his footing on the slipping ground. The roaring laughs of lookers-on rang mocking in the street. He skirted her like plague and backed in the direction he’d been heading. Waterlogged eyebrows furrowed on his pallid face as he shook his head and whispered in retreat.

_“I’m sorry. Find me if you change your mind.”_

Cole’s display of evasion and pity made a mockery of her amongst her peers; she laughed and shrugged it off as she resumed her prowling post. The lot of them called jauntily after the swaying in his youthful hips and the way his leather pants went taut across his arse. The dumbfounded glance he cast back over his shoulder only made their come-ons more obscene.

Somehow, the teasing seemed to follow him through every winding street. By the time Cole reached the alabaster sprawl of High Town, his jaw ached with clenching and his gentle heart was in his squelching boots.

He thought _Denerim_ was bad.


	6. Father Knows

“Solas. I can’t read.”

Dust motes danced in blazing shafts of sun through panes of shim’ring crystal. They were seated at a table wide enough for two to face each other without bumping knees.

Her dirty feet writhed anxious and bored upon the smooth white wooden floor. His, nearly twice the size and likewise bare, were still and crossed at ankles. His words came soft and absent, always patient. As he spoke, his eyes continued on his private page.

“ _Cannot_ and _do not wish to_ are by no means the same, _da’len.”_

Her whining voice was _miserable_. She melted with great drama onto yellowed pages as she spoke.

“I’m telling you, I’m _trying_. I _can’t._ It stopped working _hours_ ago.”

Her begging finally coaxed his eyes up from their own pursuits. His stern face twitched with mirth as he beheld an eyeful of her mousey hair, her forehead flat against her book. He heard another piteous whine rounded out with a relenting sob.

Though he loved her, teacher was unmoved.

“You mean to say you lost the knack for written word before you ate your breakfast, Veyla? You have not been _reading_ for ten minutes. If the content is confounding you, you need only say so.”

No response. His student played at possum with her nose wedged in the crook of pages. One eyebrow hiked, he gently closed his book. He sat back in his roomy chair with a ponderous sigh.

“Would you have me read aloud, as to a fledgling elfkit?”

Still, nothing. He curled marred fingers ‘round the corner of his hulking tome and plucked it soundless from the table. He placed his cheek upon his fist in dappled sun, staring always at her head.

In one swift gesture, the rest of him unmoving, Solas brought the book up high and smote it on the desk beside her with a resounding **_CRACK!!_** that split the air for leagues.

She screeched and jumped and lost her toppling chair, so rattled he could _see_ her bounding pulse. Piercing eyes held his willful daughter fast like chains as she gasped to find her breath. His voice was plain and calm.

“You will speak when spoken to. Do not ignore your elders.”

Their score, to date, was neck and neck. This victory was his. He watched her stubborn will break with the quaking of her bottom lip, and from experience he knew _these_ tears for true.

It was so _painful_ for his little Dalish daughter, growing. Though her body and desires were those of an adult, her playful heart resisted age and wisdom with tenacity. _Fascinating_ , the way his Veyla would recoil time and time again from tradition and responsibility with unbridled disdain. So rebellious, so _passionate_. The girl was unaware she wore the Dread Wolf’s doting heart around her finger like a wrapping thread.

Tears came spilling, and his trademark steadfast gaze could not help but soften by a measure. He did not _enjoy_ these moments, but he watched her growing pains with proud and patient love. With Una or alone, Fen’Harel would stay and teach this child until her gentle heart could catch up with the rest of her.

Her feelings broke on him in a diluvial rush. His voice stayed firm and even with effortless grace.

_“I HATE YOUR STUPID BOOK! I DON’T **CARE** WHAT IT SAYS!”_

“This is not about a book, _da’len._ You must learn to stay your wand’ring mind and pay attention.”

Her cheeks were red, her face scrunched up in pain. “You think I’m _stupid!”_

“No, I do not.”

He watched her snatch her book and throw it through a sunlit pane of crystal. _Shatter!_ Though they’d talked at length about respecting books, he did not react. She melted to the floor, wailing with sobs.

“You’re _lying!_ You think I’m **stupid** ‘cause I can’t sit here like you, and you think I’m **weak** ‘cause I can’t shoot! I tried, I _tried,_ **I** **can’t do it!”**

“That’s enough.”

Her face was in her hands now, and she was bawling on her knees. Of course, she did not stop.

“ _Y-you **hate** me, I’m not good at **anything** and you’re gonna lea-hea-heaveee!”_

She ran out of words then, and spent her passions all on weeping. Solas would have watched her, but he could not see her for the table. He closed his eyes and sat in silence as he waited, listening to her struggling to breathe.

Her heart had a boundless appetite for hurting; she cried five times the minutes she’d spent struggling to read. The old elf heard her sobs go sighing, her wails becoming sniffles. With this, he knew the storm was over. His words were gentle, not a reprimand. He uncrossed his ankles and lifted his cheek from his fist.

“ _Da’len._ Come here.”

The squeaking of a sullen mouse. “No. You don’t love me.”

“I have denied you pity, Veyla. I have never once denied you love, and never will. Nor do I intend to leave you. Come here.”

Silence, stillness.  After a while, she came under the table. Her forehead found his robed shin with a thud, and there she seemed content to stay.

The feet of his chair warbled rich against the vibrating floor of her little treehouse as he scooted back to give her room. He settled in his seat once more and gave his thigh a pat.

She kept her chin tucked in shame as she skulked into his lap, curling up with her feet and bottom on his legs. Ancient arms squeezed her whole body in a fatherly embrace as his lips made purchase on her forehead with a tender kiss. When he spoke, her trusting fingers clutched his robes.

“Sweet child. I am more proud of you than I have ever been of anything.”

She giggled then, indomitably impish. “Oh _yeah?”_

He closed his eyes, he grinned, he shook his head. His sharp chin came to rest in her hair with a chuckle as he lightened up in response to her playfulness.

“I fear my little halla calf is not convinced. _”_

She played at skepticism, looking across the room. “ _Ehhh…_ I bet you’re more proud of your…fancy painting.”

“The word you’re thinking of is _mural_ , Veyla, and no. I am decidedly more proud of you.”

“Yeah?”

_“ ‘Yeah.’ “_

“Even when I make you angry?”

Another chuckle. His arms relaxed and found their rests.

“Go easy, child. You try my patience with your stubbornness at times, but I wouldn’t say you’ve ever made me _angry_. However, while you never give me cause to lose my temper, the way you slink around my forest kissing half-dressed _shemlen_ **does** give my weak heart fits.”

Her eyes went wide, her cheeks went pink. He looked down his nose at her, his chin high and smug, a deceitful smirk dancing at the dimpled corners of his mouth. His voice went loud and boisterous.

 _“Mmhm._ Oh, _yes._ Father knows! I make an Emissary of the boy, I send him high and low all over Thedas! I lock my little princess in a tower full of books! _Still,_ she finds the time!”

She blushed so hard her ears went red. She shoved him in the chest, hiding her hot face against his neck with naughty giggles. “You’re a sneaky, dirty old elf!”

“Yes. When did I say I wasn’t?”

She giggled and shoved at him again. He went “ _oof!_ ” to please her, and it worked. He laughed richly and gave her lower back a pat.

“I don’t suppose you’d fancy a trip to Val Royeaux with an old man, _da’len?_ ”

He felt her go rigid with anticipation, his poking at her poorly hidden love life all forgotten.

“Don’t you have to build more woods?”

“Come, child. The woods can wait. Lovely Madrie's has plagued my mind for days.”

A teasing giggle, and she scrunched her nose. “Her tiny frilly dresses, or her tiny frilly cakes?”

He pretended to be taken quite aback, looking to the side and forward once again. “Her cakes, of course. Well-…Ah. Perhaps it’s both.”

Veyla shoved him once again and called him dirty. She laughed with joy and left his lap in an excited rush, ferreting around for her little pack. She called happily across the room to him, unaware that her innocent request popped the patch-job on his heart like an over-full balloon.

“Is Miss Una home yet Solas, can she come with us!? She’ll deck you if she sees you making eyes at the cake lady! She’s a _shemlen_ **too** , you know.”

He rose to his feet, straightening a book that didn’t need it. His countenance grew guarded and serene as he looked down on Veyla’s desk. He set his jaw, he closed his eyes, and all playfulness left him. The soft distance in his voice made her stop and turn around.

“I’m sorry, child. She isn’t home.”


	7. It Does Not Matter What a King Believes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Provision of Tens: A written negotiation between _Namadahlan_ and Ferelden, restricting amnesty to one of every ten elves from any given Alienage.

The oaty, piping tea was very much Fereldan. Even on the dicey verge of negotiating elven sovereignty, His Majesty’s fine china made her long for flirting footsies, for smiling eyes with hues that matched this kingdom’s rainy skies. She had not indulged in such memories for aching weeks.

She breathed with peace as she surveyed King Alistair’s garden from their sheltered vantage seated at, she understood, his favorite spot for tea. Though dead and brown with winter, there was hushing beauty in the dormant thorny vines that conquered every brick. Drizzling rain cast the courtyard in a fuzzing haze of mist that nipped her nose with pleasant chill.

She snuggled deep into the cozy robe and slippers of her gracious host’s courtesy, steeling her mind to make the Talk of Kings.

“Carry on, then. I _think_ I can manage to pour the Herald’s tea. If you hear her screaming, you’ll know I’ve dumped it in her lap. Pray for yourself, Oric – you’re the royal scapegoat this week, are you not?”

She chuckled deep and smooth as he dismissed the four attendants who'd escorted them to the gazebo bearing canvas canopies aloft to keep them dry. As she watched his people leave, she brought her stately head to rest against her wrought-iron chair and spoke.

“Your Majesty. O’er the past year, I have known the courtesies of many. I have been handled as a mighty warrior, a divine icon, an unwelcome conqueror, even as a Dalish savage. Never, in my time as Herald, or indeed in all my life, have I been entertained as a lady. Your chivalry towards an elven woman is unexpected, and very much appreciated.”

She heard porcelain go clinking on the table t’wixt their seats before he answered. She tore her rapt gaze from his charming grounds to pay the king proper attention.

“Your comfort is my delight, Your Worship. Especially the slippers. I’ll brag about coaxing a Dalish lady into footwear for weeks.”

He muttered into his tea then, for his own amusement she supposed. “Bragging about getting women _into_ clothes. Not…great.”

He gestured for cheers with his dainty teacup, and with another chuckle she complied. _Tink!_ He nodded with conviction, and they returned to looking out over his hibernating grounds together.

She could not decide if Alistair was a very _easy_ man, or a very guarded one. His correspondence seemed sincere enough. Regardless of his feelings towards her purpose, His Majesty seemed quite unrushed. He took to small talk like a favored art. Politely, he did not mention her tardiness that stretched beyond a day.

“How goes the Inquisition, then?”

“Quite well, thank you. We are thrilled to send many of our soldiers home in times of relative peace.”

A half-truth. To her _knowledge_ , things were fine. She hadn’t checked in on her war machine since the funeral rite for her fallen troops. She had the utmost faith in her counsel of three, and assumed the Inquisition bent its will towards establishing order in crumbling Thedas.

They didn’t need her anymore. Her cares were with her people now.

“Very good. So! A _coronation._ Lovely writing on the invitations, by the way. Your kingdom, My Lady…it’s…it’s just _woods_ , right? What’s a human king to wear? Will scowling elves stop me at the door and burn my boots?”

Not a chuckle this time, but a laugh. She set her cup aside and shook her head, deciding then that he _was_ an easy man to like. She chose to omit the truth of her cluelessness regarding the event.

“Likewise, Your Majesty, I am beside myself with wondering what to wear. I find your current attire quite suitable, if it pleases you.”

He looked himself over with an expression of surprise. “The Royal Pajamas please your taste, Herald? Very well.”

She gave him another of the chuckles he seemed so desperate to earn, and they sat in silence for a time to enjoy the whispering rain. She wondered if His Majesty’s opulent garb was truly his pajamas.

As they sat in comfortable refrain, her eyes followed a narrow stream winding near the paving stones that snaked a path across his garden. She caught a glimpse of golden scales glinting in the fading light and marveled with a smile. The rain was melting a thin layer of ice, and King Alistair’s chilly fishes were rightly pleased.

Her smile widened as she realized how happy and unburdened her tired heart now felt. Yes, this jesting king will die someday. But here he is today, and he is real and full of life.

_Solas. Forgive me. I miss you. I miss you._

In time, His Majesty spoke again.

“So. Your Emissary came last month, per our correspondence. My staff is still on about ‘The Man in White.’ Cat fights in the hallway every morning over whose turn it was to change his sheets! _Exhausting!_ You should tell that kid to cut his face. Nothing gets the women off you like a gnarly scar. Oh, or maybe a tattoo on his neck. I know a guy in Antiva who does _great_ tattoos."

She pictured her sweet Cole accosted by giggling maids at every turn, and smiled with pity for his plight. She wondered if his caring heart knew what to make of such attentions.

“The City Elves your man chaperoned, how are they settling in? Have they mudded up the place and tied garbage to your trees?”

At _that_ tasteless joke, she did not laugh.

“They thrive, Your Highness, and are dearly loved. What impact has their absence had? Do you see fit to lift your provision?”

She heard duty hardening his voice and turned to find his eyes once more. She watched his jaw go tight.

“A blighted month is hardly adequate for my advisers to… _advise_. It takes years to discern the socioeconomic ramifications of a law regulating the grading systems for _wool,_ Inquisitor. You request the sudden removal of an **entire** social class. The Provision of Tens _already_ has half the Freeholders aiming pies at His Majesty’s noble _face_.”

Una found authority as if her wounded heart had never left its station. Alistair started visibly when she took her feet and plucked her heavy chair from the gazebo floor, planting it in front of him and resuming her seat. So close was she, their knees were nearly touching. Her milky hands folded in her lap, her chin stayed high. Green eyes that commanded legions and banished demons bade a king pay her heed.

She did not call him Majesty.

“I know full well how the Blight racked your kingdom years ago. For your place in righting it and keeping peace, all of Thedas owes you gratitude. Your concern over the welfare of Ferelden’s recovering economy is admirable and wise; your advisers do themselves justice in hesitation.

 _“However._ I did not risk my life for your people only to turn around and have their king deny me mine. If not for elven sacrifice, Ser, you would _have_ no kingdom. The lovely garden where we sit would crisp in ash alongside your economists.

“If your advisers would prop Ferelden’s livelihood upon the backs of the unfortunate, I urge you to replace them. Likewise, if so many of your Freeholders should judge you weak for hon’ring justice, I **urge** you to replace them.

“If you deny my advice, Ser, and instead see fit to heed these worries at the loss of Ferelden’s precious lower class; fetch you then your wayward sons from Kirkwall and beyond, the human refugees of Blight your throne could not before now spare the space to recollect. Fill the aching void beneath your boot heels with _their_ backs. I cannot abide the suff’ring of my people for the sake of your kingdom’s misguided sense of stability.”

He looked her over with a creasing brow, they stared each other down. “Is that a threat, Your Worship?”

Mossy eyes kept the deadlock as she slowly shook her head. “By no means, gentle king. I am _sick_ to _death_ of war, and have no means to threaten you. It is an appeal to reason, Ser, and a statement of the truth.

“Let my people go. They are not, nor have they ever been, Ferelden's property to hold. Your advisers grasp at dying truths in a crumbling world. It is understandable, but wrong. I would not see elves condemned to poverty and worse out of ignorant denial of the changing winds. I offer a solution that will cost you nothing, and gain the innocent _everything_. I know you for a good man. Help me see it done.”

His body lost its threatened edge. He sank back with comfort in his chair, though his face went sour with regret. Still, his jaw was tight, and so was hers. Her back stayed straight and strong.

“You speak as though the Freeholders are so easily replaced. No matter - more stays my hand than fretting at the royal coffer, Lady Lavellan. I wasn’t going to bring it up, out of respect for your dignity.”

For _that,_ he earned a scoff.

“Though I enjoy the slippers, I am _no_ blushing maiden, Your Majesty. It does our negotiations no benefit to spare the truth.”

She earned a royal smile for that, for her comment on the slippers. “Right you are. Unfortunately, M’Lady, it isn’t truth of which I speak.”

“Rumor, then? You think the Dalish elf birthed straight out Andraste’s holy arse so easily offended by a rumor? Come, let us have it. I am curious.”

His eyebrows hiked, he shrugged as if to say ‘ _if you insist…_ ’. He glanced at the setting sun o’er his garden wall, as though he could not look her in the face and give it words.

“If you have experience with rumors, M’Lady, then you know it does not _matter_ what a King believes. Alright…” A breath, he cleared his throat. She watched him twist a ring upon his finger, and she wondered at the thing. Wondered at the loneliness of ruling as he did, alone.

“They say you bed the elven Devil, capital ‘D’. The Big Bad Wolf, or something. They don’t _believe_ in him, and yet – Well. You and I both know the people love a sexy scandal.

“Some insist you are possessed, amassing an army of oppressed elfy soldiers for his will. As if City Elves could _ever_ be a fighting force, the poor souls, they’ve gone hungry far too long.

“Ah, and while we’re at it, they suggest that you allowed the Dalish tribes to die when they would not submit.

“The way I understand it, some soldiers coming home from fighting by your side _saw_ this Devil resurrect you with dark magic. With Morrigan involved, _Maker,_ I can only wonder at the truth of it. I pity you for keeping her skeevy company. Everything that woman _looks at_ turns to shite.  _Yech._ "

He leaned forward to her then, and took one of her hands in his. His fingers curled around her own, his touch warm and sincere. His eyes made noble apologies.

“I may be a silly man at times, dear Lady, but I am not a fool. I know full well the sacrifice you made, and I am truly sorry for the loss of your people. To tell the truth, I've a heart-sized soft spot for the elves. Though my efforts to oversee improvement for the Dalish never went well, I would _love_ to pursue diplomacy with you. I mean, _look_ at you.”

He cleared his throat and winked, then looked as though he wished he hadn’t.

“Please understand. In light of these rumors, Inquisitor, outlandish as they may be, I _cannot_ grant your favor. As it is, I barely defend your right to the Provision of Tens. With each passing day, I am shamed a fool for supporting you at all.”

Not often did new information give Una this much pause. She did not look shocked, but quiet in thought.

_The posturing, the politics, so much work – **Gods** , but reputations are a fickle, downward spiral of a thing. Surely the Orlesian Court roars with whispers by now._

_Leliana must know. She would have told me. Josie would have told me. They couldn’t **find** me. I have moped far too long. **Damn me** , wasting time, repeating the very mistakes I wallow over. _

**_No more._ **

“Bring them, Your Majesty.”

“Pardon?”

She smiled and took her hand away, finishing her tea with a determined _clink!_ She found her feet, she dropped the robe from her shoulders into the chair and stepped free of her fuzzy slippers onto stone of biting cold.

Her voice came light and friendly, simple as a lunch date on a lazy afternoon. _Surely_ not the voice of a woman inviting hundreds of doubters to a party she knew nothing about.

“The coronation; bring them. I will see to it that invitation is extended to every Freeholder in Ferelden, from Teyrn to newest knight. Let them _see_ my kingdom and my gentle people. Let them meet me and the capital ‘D’ Devil who warms my sheets, and judge us for themselves.”

He stood to meet her, shaking his head with a bewildered laugh as he offered her his hand. Perhaps he sought to kiss her knuckles; a firm handshake was what he got. He looked down at their meshing palms as he spoke.

“My Lady, you are…words fail me. You wish to retire? Your quarters await.”

He went to reach for a silver servant’s bell upon the table and she stopped him, stepping barefoot out onto the soggy dead grass of his garden. It squished beneath her feet and made her smile up at the leaking twilit clouds. Without looking, she dipped her toes in icy greeting to his fish. The boldest sneaked a nibble of hello.

“No need, Your Majesty. Keep your sweet man dry; I am not made of sugar.”

The king regained his stately seat and poured himself a cup of tea gone cold. _“That,_ My Lady, I believe.”

Before she gained the squelching stretch to reach the doting servant Oric, who only stayed dry ground because she held a hand aloft to stop him, Alistair’s voice bade her pause and turn her head.

“Unique.”

“What’s that, Your Majesty?”

“The word I couldn’t find before. You are…unique. I wish you luck. Good evening.”

His words moved her heart in ways he would never understand, and the smile she gave him set him blushing 'neath his collar like a courting lover.

“What a lovely thing to say, Your Majesty. Thank you very much. Good evening.”

As she stepped out of the rain, she placed her hand on Oric’s waiting back and thanked him warmly for the simple task of guiding her to bed. At her gracious touch and whisper of his name, he too went blushing and fell instantly in love.

She thought on the king’s compliment as she twisted shim’ring fabric of the vestments from her ancient lover in her fingers, following her escort up the steps to her chambers.

_Oh, vhenan. I cannot **wait** to watch them love you as they should._


	8. A Name Four Letters Long

Her steps clipped with purposeful authority, and Cole’s feet took up the charge with the ease of Inquisition muscle memory in spite of soggy soles that writhed and huffed. Ever the accoutrement enthusiast, he took great pleasure in the metal clicking of her steps against wet stone. The Guard Captain’s ringing greaves, in a style he’d never seen, went seamless o’er her boots and purchased at the arches of her feet. He enjoyed the repetitious cutting note of power while it lasted; when they reached the vile sea of mud below, her noble feet would go squelching with the rest.

_Clicking, armor shifting, more armor than woman, everything about her set and stern. I wonder what she’s thinking._

Gloved hands tugged his wet collar ‘gainst his neck in a futile gesture as he shuddered at the cold. Though the pressing downpour ceased the moment he set foot upon the Viscount’s doorstep – of _course_ – chill now set against Cole’s pallid flesh and stayed there, wet and unrelenting. In spite of how the supple lambskin hugged his frame and looked quite marvelous, the cut and seams somehow lacked integrity in their design. The unexpected sneeze that jarred his body earned a blessing from his guide.

 _These useless **clothes** , _ he thought with rueful ire. _Dorian’s bad taste, my first human cold._

Distraction, conversation; he’d wondered at this woman since she met him at the door, and longed in his simple miseries for likewise simple kinship. His speech came warm and friendly then, to most it seemed the only tone he knew. His words rose in wafting steam before his face. So smooth was he, their side-by-side descending of the final steps to Lowtown did not shake his voice.

“Thank you. You’re kind, escorting me. You’re busy.”

“I attend you on the Viscount’s wishes, Sir. I would not have you navigate my city on official business such as this without a proper guard. Besides. Hawke asked me to witness the proceedings.”

He liked her. He liked her voice. Bluntly strong and rich like Una, but lacking lilting Dalish upswings at the end.

Dalish voices… _Sigh!_ He missed his playful Veyla with every seventh thought or less. One more kiss scored the tally his infatuated mind kept hidden in the corner of his sneaking, grinning mouth.

“Oh – My name is Cole! You don’t need to call me Sir. And your name is Aveline. It’s strong, it means a lot. You’re from Orlais?”

The half-mud half-firm slickness, now. His steps required attention, and he paid it. As he’d anticipated, her greaves were finished singing. He missed their gritting clink already. He sneezed again, quite violently, and struggled for a private moment with his runny nose. _Obnoxious_. He pulled a black kerchief from the pocket of his pants and cursed his friend.

“I know your name, young man. Varric says it oft’ enough. Yes, I am Orlesian. Many residents of Kirkwall are, though you’d never know it when the rains come. And you, Sir? You have the look of it.”

Cole did not notice, but his sheer delight brought the whisper of a smile to Aveline’s broad face.

"You _know_ me? _Oh!_ **You** know Varric, I – Yes, I guess you would! Hello! Will you eat with us tonight?”

“To that, Varric has also pressed me. I have matters to attend, Cole, and the day grows late. Donnic and I may join you at The Hanged Man late this evening, but I cannot guarantee it.”

A pleased nod of understanding, and his enthusiasm kept his chin up high. He became at once aware of how _differently_ the street responded to his presence when he walked alongside Aveline. He felt like a part of something bigger once again, like a member of the Inquisition walking tall and meaningful through darkness that shrank back with prudence from his steps.

He didn’t miss the killing. He missed the respect, he missed the barrier it brought up between him and the world, he thought. That reverent distant look that folks would get, watching him like something inaccessible and bright. But then…his heart went back there, and he lost himself in warring human thought.

That wasn’t right. He didn’t _want_ barriers. He wanted _this_ – to talk until his throat went hoarse and listen ‘til his ears did just the same, to sweep into people’s lives and make a difference with caring actions most were too guarded to hope for, to laugh and learn and form a bond with every soul that crossed his path. He _loved_ the people of the world. He couldn’t meet them fast enough!

And this woman, she _knew_ him, though she’d never met him. It felt _wonderful,_ existing so completely that a word, a name four letters long, was all it took to _matter_.

What was it, then, that he missed so much about the Inquisition? He had companions if he wished them, he made new friends now everywhere he went. If not the killing or the fame, then what? _Certainly_ not the sand.

Unbidden, his flexing mind recalled the sadness ghosting in caked-on made-up eyes that offered up and clutched his flinching breeches. He sighed long and heavy with knowing then, and his blue eyes found the ground before his feet. 

The hearing. He couldn’t prove his love to those who _really_ needed it, because he couldn’t know their pain the way he used to. He couldn’t climb the walls they all put up, walls that left him guessing, grasping in the dark to help. He felt the list of words he knew grew shorter every day, so stunted was his tongue in giving aid to those in need.

So rapt was he with worrying at the ground before his feet, he did not hear her talking ‘til the end of what she said.

“…offended you. We are nearly there.”

“Huh?” A face like a child then, eyebrows set blank with confusion as he reset his posture and pulled his sulking hands from his pockets. “I – sorry, I was thinking, what’d you say?” _HAH-CHOO!_ “M’sorry, dguh.”

Sheepish smiling would have meshed with the apology and fit the situation nicely, but Cole was too flustered with himself to call it up. The mud was getting worse, it sucked their steps now with offensive noises that challenged all involved to maintain pride and dignity.

He’d wrestled with a pretty girl in mud just like this, once. A smile, another sovereign clinking in the dragon’s horde of kisses owed at mission’s end. Sneezy cold or no, his scattered mind could find her giggling memory in a stack of moldy hay.

“Andraste bless you, Cole. We must get this done and get you to The Hanged Man for fresh clothes. I was apologizing for guessing wrongly after your heritage. You seemed put-off.”

“Oh – Oh, no, it was something else. I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re not wrong, my father was Orlesian. Thank you. You’re the first to notice.”

It felt strange, talking about Cole. It made his shoulders squirm and stretch, it felt like lying and it didn’t. Mirrors made him think about it, so he learned to do without them by and large.

“Ah. I’m pleased to have been right.”

He wished he’d let the subject die, and yet he kept it up. Something about practicing his sleuthing maybe, or a vain attempt to redirect the focus of their talk. He sniffed hard before he spoke and heard his voice go blubby, his T’s becoming D’s. Did human colds always set in so quickly?

“Your father, Aveline, the way you speak. He was a noble?”

“Varric’s tales of your insight do you great justice, Cole. Yes, my father was a Chevalier. Yours as well?”

His eyes rose to observe the mud-caked teeth of the portcullis passing overhead as they crossed the Alienage threshold, and his stomach sank for o’er a dozen reasons. To be caged, locked in like a prisoner every night for ‘your own good.’ No person should call such a place a home, and yet they did. In his own way, so had he.

He pinched his nose, he scrunched his face,  he shook his head. It was quiet, it was guarded, and it was all he said.

“No.”


	9. There is Always Dreaming

Creation served atonement, _always,_ when he couldn’t sleep. These days, every night.

Though Mythal’s sun was only gearing up to set, he planned to moil ‘til orbit reached the east. Solas followed in his lover’s footsteps now; in light of loss, he found sleeping far too detestable to bear. It did not make sense for him, but it was true. He was sure the aegis of the Fade would reclaim his foundering heart in time, but not tonight or soon.

So restless was his ancient soul, the Dread Wolf had no need of waking poison.

As he toiled in meditative silence, noisy dinner was convening in the glen beneath her vacant tree. That place was too far back for even Elvhen ears to hear. Here, where Mercy’s virgin boughs bent o’er the edge of charring blackness, the only life to see for miles was his.

During the preliminary rush to build her haven, Fen’Harel neglected hills and imperfections. He pulled them now into his inchoate design, an artist sculpting landscapes out of nothingness.

He walked as he worked. The Orb of Destruction, poorly christened engine of his oft mislabeled will, hovered o’er his outstretched palm as the soil of ages rolled to life and form beneath his feet.

Though the task commanded much of him, there was always room for mulling o’er a memory or two.

_“Solas, you never come to dinner.”_

_“I take my dinners late, da’len. Stop playing with your food.”_

He saw Veyla squiggle colored icing on fine china with her fingers, he felt her watch his watching. Her rambling lines became a fixed repeating circle as she spoke. He let her sticky digits win the fight, smiling as green and blue pasted sugars lost discreteness at her touch.

_“You don’t come to **breakfast,** either. You don’t come out at all.”_

_“Late as I take my dinners, I take breakfast even later. I see you every day, da’halla. What is your concern? Can you not feed yourself?”_

_“Papae…”_

He’d been called many things in life, but _never_ this; the word yanked Fen’Harel heart and soul across the wobbly little table, it set the balls of his feet tense against the checkered tile. His vision darted up from confectionary fingerpaints to find her peering hard, olivine glare Veyla-Brand determined. His eyebrows furrowed in response to the question on her face. The chipping scar upon his forehead sank in deep and clear as he explored her eyes.

These were not new concerns, it seemed, but some secret unease left festering in her care-free heart for weeks. Una, he presumed. Though he loved his wayward lady still and always would, he was _beyond_ cross with her for Veyla’s pining sake.

Solas would not be caught off-guard again; he summoned up a gentle, caring smile. He reached across the table and gave her sticky hand a squeeze, heedless of the transferred filth. He rubbed his thumb across her palm to soothe, _tut-tutting_ soft behind his teeth before he gave a chuckle.

_“Come now, Veyla. You’ll have Madrie worried at the freshness of your cake with that expression.”_

She blurted then. Not _yelling,_ but a skosh too loud for Madrie’s little bakery.

**_“Why are you so scared of everyone?”_ **

The sun was gone. His mind snatched his aggrieved heart by the chin, jerked it straight, demanded focus in the form of flowers. He obeyed and sent ruffled blooms exploding in the dark, a blushing coral color of their own accord. His flicking wrist dispatched a rippling wave of them in all directions as energies he had no better use for spilled from bare soles into yielding earth.

Countless legions of his new creations stood still and awkward in the windless night, casting sidelong glances ‘mongst themselves. Chilly midnight was **not** , they agreed, a proper time for blooming. They eyed the reckless god with skepticism bordering on judgment.

He crushed the most critical of their ranks beneath his arse as he half-fell half-sat upon the hillock ‘neath his feet. The impact forced a _huff_. Fingertips reached up to rub exhausted eyes as he allowed the orb to roll away. The thing did not go far. It glowed sweetly at him from below, muttering excuses to the offended foliage on Fen’Harel’s behalf.

There were only battles sleeping here. Dead elves beneath the grass, as some-elf elegantly put it to him once. _Still_ , he reasoned as he sank back upon his private knoll in the middle of his nowhere, _there is always dreaming_. He found no comfort in that truth; he knew he wouldn’t.

Even so, he rolled his shoulders as he settled on his back, intending to surrender to his begging, sagging eyelids. He chuckled at himself as he beheld the misplaced flowers bowing overhead, thinking on the span of it – her people would all wonder in the morning. Slipping consciousness gave a sinking feeling ‘gainst the earth as the god of dreams at _last_ reached out to sleep.

Not a moment then, not one. The pang that clamped his chest jolted him from near-asleep with a choking gasp. He clutched white-knuckled at the fur-lined leathers o’er his heart as his eyes shot open wide.

Once upon a time, his heart contained an unceasing orchestra of Pantheonic souls in Arlathan. Though their blood was not alike, they filled each other just the same. June’s elation at a well-plied craft would pick them up. All of them would wilt a bit when Sylaise lost a child. Each god’s disposition was a factor in his brother’s capricious nature, as one would expect.

Silence, when he’d locked them all away, an earless vacancy in his soul, a solitude of uninfluenced self. It could stretch on, and did, for untold passing centuries. He could admit, he very nearly disremembered the sensation.

That all changed weeks ago, the day Fen’Namas took her second first breath ‘gainst the blighted earth. His body now contained her vague unsilenced agonies no matter where she went. He was out of practice; the hearing tried his patience. She surely heard and felt the mutterings of his old heart as well, though he doubted she could understand it.

Not since Andruil’s murder, not since Mythal’s, a thousand _lifetimes_ since he’d felt this desperate begging signal in his veins. It scorched, it killed, it commanded a psychotic rushing dread. He trampled dainty blossoms ‘neath his feet at his screaming blood’s behest, snatching up his instrument with unbreathing haste.

_It’s her, it’s her, and I have **always** been too late._

The orb would take him to the castle gates. His feet would do the rest.


	10. The Greatest Fear She'd Ever Known

Removed from watching her defeated people try and learn to laugh again. Removed from the rug of trees he’d built to sweep mistakes beneath. Removed from witnessing his disappointment.

That afternoon spent sipping tea and arguing was the first time Fen’Namas did not experience hallucinations in her waking life. The brief respite from her mind’s imagined spectacles of butchery brought clarity of thought, a breath of pause, the room to think. She found the self she’d lost for weeks there, standing in the rain.

As she spent the evening grooming in a lady’s gilded tub, her heart rejoiced. She smiled now and snuggled in her fluffy _shemlen_ bed, humming happily as her mind raced through a hundred thoughts at once. She did not realize that this was something Solas often did, perhaps without the humming. To know it, surely, would have made her glad.

Tomorrow morning, she’d go home. She’d find her Veyla first. Hers was the most important face Una sought to watch while moping over breakfast from above. The young lady _certainly_ did not need or miss a mother anymore. Still, there were apologies to make. She was certain Veyla had a breathless catalog of tales to share, all of them delightful, many crass.

She could not _wait_ to greet her people, to join them at their lovely meals, to hold their hands as they rebuilt their culture. Music. She would give them music. She would send for Mayren’s harp.

The passionate young scribe from the Arlathvhen. He lived, and he was waiting there for her. She watched him take excessive sugar in his tea. She’d sit with him at dinner, yes, and know the state of everything through his impassioned words. She’d make him her official record keeper, and perhaps have him teach. Yes – a school, a school!

A coronation? Bring it on! She’d magic hospitalities to make the Empress blush. She’d have Solas teach her how to build the way he did; she did not doubt ability to learn. She would pack all of Thedas ear-to-ear into the lovely kingdom of her heart’s design.

The Brewer’s Guild in Orzammar – Yes, she’d have them there, she’d buy every drop of icewine from their stores and sing their praises through the drunken, dancing night. Orzammar; she’d go. She’d see the place and form a bond of love with it.

The drinking - Solas, _always_ Solas. He would order up the custom silver serving cups he’d mentioned. He would glow with secrets as he watched them drinking from the font of his ancient past, and she would have _him_ drunk and pliant. She would see his stiff upper lip go loose, and they would all admire him.

_Our clothes will be wonderful, the music and the food and joy, and he will take my side and they will love us both. We will not rule – he wouldn’t want to either, no, we will **guide**. We’ll nudge our people in the way they wish to go, and their hearts will know the comforts of kinship as they never have before._

She would go to Fen’Harel tomorrow, find a way to make it right and earn his love again – maybe, just _maybe_ , once he fixed her dreams, he’d be amenable to dalliance at once?

Though loving hadn’t crossed her mind in more than weeks, her insatiable appetite for pleasure now had her grinning in the dark. She’d only had him twice – just _twice!_ An endless lifetime waking next to him would hardly be enough. Her half-sleeping hips squirmed with memories of his lapping tongue, his heated whispers, the way his fingers clutched her hips, the way his sultry laughter rumbled in his chest and bounced around the room, the _taste_ of him.

What a note to fall asleep on, _mmm,_ and what sweet dreams she’d have. Perhaps she’d _find_ him there, if she went looking. No words, no explanations; their eyes would be enough. They’d iron out the kinks tomorrow. Tonight, she’d hold the god of dreams to promises of pleasure in the Fade.

No.

Just now, in the moment when sleep reached out and took her, dread dawned and smacked reminders ‘cross her mind. She _knew_ the dream that would consume her, and it was _not_ of love. She could not escape it, not alone. She worried, upon waking, that she’d lose herself again, and all these hopes and dreams and plans would fall away to fear. She would have stayed awake to stop it, but she was far too late.

Even as their staring faces whispered into being, Una knew the fruitlessness of allowing these delusions to persist. This was not one misguided man’s affront to face and best, to come through repetition to an understanding and forgive.

Reliving these hells did _not_ exhaust her trauma. Rather, each passing evening made them worse. She realized now, as she screamed with muffled drowning in a pool of gore with the razored fingers of a defeated demi-god piercing her skull, that she could _never_ best these dreams. Nor would this repeated punishment absolve her of her sins. She would suffer for what seemed like an eternity in sleep, only to wake and lose herself to visions all afresh.

She couldn’t, not again. She needed help. She needed him. He’d attended the premiere; he begged her then to let him stop the show, she sent him far away in her unthinking grief. To pull him here of _her_ accord was not an easy thing to do, in light of past rejection and intensity of her illusions.

Still. She had to try.

She wrest herself away from grasping claws, descending in a never-ending depth of choking claret. She felt the monster of her own design go clutching after her, felt fathoms ringing pressure in her ears. It felt _so_ real, his raking at her calf, the drowning sludge that filled her lungs and clogged her throat.

Skyhold, then. She stood trembling, naked, blood pooling at her feet and spreading underneath his door. Her hair hung red and heavy with the stuff, it blurred her eyes and when she went to wipe for sight there came only **more** blood. Blood on her hands, blood running in a blinding river down her face. Nowhere could she see her skin; she was not sure she had any.

She gagged on gore to clear her lungs and choked his name with pleading. Her palms went slipping ‘cross the door with filth. She could not best his entry, though all it needed was a push.

She struggled there alone upon the threshold of his comforts, and her efforts came to no avail. She clawed, she shoved, she _banged,_ she slid and fell, she stood and banged some more, she called his name and cried alone. It was worse than any nightmare her mind’s eye had ever built.

Wood yielded with a creaking, then, and sent her stumbling through the sanguine puddle of mistakes that spread into his chamber. He was seated at the table where they’d shared their first flirtations. So high-backed was his chair, she could only glimpse his resting elbow and the edge of his left ear.

She heard his tea cup clink against its saucer. He made no response to her, not so much as a sigh. Her heart cried out in pain; she’d been _banging, pleading,_ and he’d been here all along _._ She edged towards him still, beseeching, more terrified of Fen’Harel’s silent rejection than she’d ever been of his yelling rage.

“S-…Solas. I was wrong. I can’t-…it isn’t helping. It won’t _stop._ **_Please,_** _help, help me._ ”

His elbow left the chair. She heard his fist come crashing down on china with remorseless shattering that echoed on the walls he’d painted just for her. His blow left the table rattling, and he said not a word.

She recoiled with a shaking sob and hugged her arms over her blood-slicked breasts to hide her shame, shaking her head fiercely.

_“Don’t hate me! Please don’t hate me! I miss you! I’m so sorry!”_

He surged to his feet, standing motionless as only dreams can do. She stared horror-stricken at his back. She watched and heard the blood that dripped upon the floor from shards of porcelain embedded in his skin.

She took a breath to beg his name. He pounced her then, his face a tranquil mask. His lacerated hand found her throat before she could escape; she _tried,_ she tried to run, but his flashing movement defied space and time. She clutched his wrist as tears ran down her blood-stained cheeks, entreaties silenced by his tight four-fingered grasp.

The greatest fear she’d ever known was of his godly wrath. She now beheld it manifest, staring helpless into Fen’Harel’s unfeeling eyes, a face she knew and loved. She lost her bladder when she felt her feet leave the ground at the Dread Wolf’s behest. She could not cry out or move.

He throttled her against the wall with strength and speed no mortal man could boast. The breath that left her lungs with force snagged in her windpipe, crushed. She had no speech, she had no air, she could do naught but watch and feel.

He shattered her skull easy as his teacup, bashing her brains with rhythmic repeating ‘gainst the white wolf at her back. He would pull her bodily away from the now blood-spattered art, tighten his already clamping grip, and _WHAM!_ He’d leave her for a moment, and he’d do it all again.

It lasted longer than she’d known him, longer than she’d been alive. Her mangled body died in endless pain beneath his hand, and still he did not cease – over and over and _over,_ his shoulder surging with the work of it, the rest of him relaxed. His passive face was less animated in observing his once-lover’s torture than she’d seen it o’er a book he never bothered finishing.

But he _did_ watch. Blue eyes once rimmed with tears of adoration consumed her eternal suffering, unblinking and unmoved.


	11. The Dread Wolf Does Not Brook Apologies*

It took three hard blows across the face to pull her out. She heard her own begging in the air, felt it in her lungs. She could still see her captor’s staring face, and though he slowed, he continued racking her. She felt the throttling in real time now, though sensations here were clammed and dull compared to what she left behind.

Long beats stretched between hearing and parsing. A voice authoritative, sharp, inches from her face. Words she’d heard before, a voice she loved. She almost couldn’t hear him for the screeching in her ears.

_“Inquisitor, LOOK at me! **Damn you, asha! WAKE! UP!”**_

Two more slaps across the face and Una found her eyes. The dream was done.

She saw Solas kneeling over her in bed. She did not recoil from him – she knew at once, if he was here awake, the angry god who passed the evening bashing out her brains was just a dream. She was ashamed for having thought it true.

_I am in Denerim, it is the middle of the night. Solas, how...?_

He had her by the shoulders, he’d been shaking her awake to no avail. He looked _terrified_ as she had never seen, more shaken now than on the threshold of the _Banaluth._ His chest was heaving, he was soaking wet. It matted the fur of his collar, it dripped from his cleft chin – not sweat, she thought, but rain. He’d been standing in the rain. She could hear it now, beating on the window.

The room was full of people. The hand on her forehead wasn’t his. Her begging stopped, she took a ragged breath.

“ _There_ she is. Oric, the bin – she’ll be sick, I wager. Adalia always was.”

Solas swiftly moving off, metal clinking to her right. Someone’s charitable hands held back her hair as she lurched to fulfill His Majesty’s prophecy with violent wretching. She could hear Solas panting, saying something breathless, though she couldn’t make his words over her gagging.

King Alistair was louder, easier to hear.

“Clear out, you lot – he’s alright. I say he speaks the truth. Swords away, then, back to work.”

A glass of water brushed the back of her hand where she clenched the rubbish bin. She took it with a grateful whimper, tilting her head to swish the remnants of her dinner from her mouth and spit.

She couldn’t look at _any_ of them, she was so embarrassed. Half of Alistair’s night guard just saw her in her slip, raving like a lunatic. She hovered o’er her bucket, though she was quite finished. She’d rather smell her sick than speak.

Hands left her hair – Alistair. She heard him clap Solas on the back, heard him move to take his leave.

“Not to worry, Ser. I know firsthand the curse of loving a strong woman. They can’t dream about _snakes_ like a normal person. It was always darkspawn feeding her my eyeballs, her being breastfed by a damn’d broodmother… _Ahem._

“Well, Salis. It is Salis? A pleasure meeting you, of course, but – well, this is awkward. You can stay, if it’s going to stop her screaming all night. But do us both a favor, will you, and try to…not…be…seen? With her? Your presence is…it’s complicated. Eh, she’ll tell you. I bid you both good evening. Oric will bring breakfast ‘fore you leave tomorrow.

“Oric, did I sound like an ass just now? I did. Don’t tell me. Shut up.”

And he left, and Oric with him, and it was just the two of them. She was still leaning o’er the bucket with a glass of water in her hand. She felt blood rushing to her head, and knew she’d have to sit up soon. Still, she couldn’t – she knew the dream hadn’t been him, but _gods,_ it felt real, and here he was, and he wasn’t speaking.

A sidelong glance through flaxen hair. He was seated at the foot of her bed with his head in his hands, saying nothing. She stared at his unmoving back and felt dread creep into her already shaken heart; not this, not his rejection all over again. She worried if she spoke he’d turn around and choke her, break her skull against the headboard. He _wouldn’t,_ and she knew, but…still.

Surely he couldn’t throttle her for gratitude. She sat upright slowly, brushing her miraculously unsoiled hair out of her face.

“Solas…Thank you.”

He found his feet with suddenness that bade her recoil in earnest, jerking her blanket up over her chest as she cringed against her headboard. Her doubting eyes kept his back. He cast a glare up at the ceiling as he was wont to do when cross, and she watched him fold his arms. She chastised herself for being so afraid of him.

“Do not _thank_ me, woman. These masochistic nightmares teach you nothing while they cost us more with every passing day.”

Una was not easily moved to tears. Her golden brow did furrow, and she pulled her knees up to give her forehead a place to fall. Her words were quiet.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I thought-…I thought I could beat it. I always did before.”

She heard him turn around, but didn’t look. His voice grew softer as he walked along the bed, coming closer.

“There is no atonement to be found in wallowing alone. I told you this, and still you acted like a stubborn child. **Now** look at you. Squalling loud enough to wake a king, shaming both of us, giving Fen’Harel’s old heart infarctions while he stands pleading with the night guard in the pouring rain.”

She felt the bed move with his weight. He didn’t touch her, but proffered amends were clear in the way he sighed, the way he sat so near.

She lifted her head to look at him, and her fears fell away – there he was, _so close,_ and he was watching her. His lovely eyes were _far_ from unfeeling. She slid her feet beneath the blanket, wiggling her toes at his thigh.

“My ancient lover speaks as though he has not spent eternities wallowing alone. What is the word, _vhenan?”_

He pursed his lips and squinted at her, leaning back on his hands. His tricky smirk put a dimple in the corner of his mouth that gave her chills. His syllables purred.

“Hmm. _Hypocrisy,_ perhaps?”

“Ah, yes. That’s the one.”

He sat unmoving as he watched her like a hawk. She rose from bed to stand before him as if by right. Nightmares all forgotten, her unflinching fingers grasped the top buckle on his drenching vest and gave a yank. Her whisper mingled with the pattering rain upon the window at her back. The candle on the windowsill had hours of fickle light to spare.

“Mmm. We’ve many mem’ries in this doublet, Solas. It’s a shame to see it ruined. How shall I apologize for troubling you tonight, for everything I’ve done?”

His hand came over hers, stopping her. His eyes went treacherous and dark.

“Fen’Namas has much to learn. The Dread Wolf does not brook apologies.”

Slow-sinking eyes apprised her hungrily, and her hips rolled ‘neath his gaze with the invitation of a vixen. She watched him notice, and she thrilled. Her heart began to race.

“Oh, he _doesn’t?”_

_“No.”_

He rushed her then, to her delight, and bore her to the wall beside her bed. She wrapped her eager legs around his waist as he scooped her ass and pressed her into stone, her shift at once soaked through with lust.

_“Oh, Sola – “_

One hand came clutching gently at her throat to hush her, a possessive thumb running up her neck as he hissed with _shhhh_. Surely he didn’t know about the dream, the way he’d choked and throttled her. This was no dark joke; he’d been awake. She _knew_ his loving heart. If she told him now, he’d more than likely grimace and pull back with regret.

Regardless, her sopping sex was not complaining at coincidence. He knew she liked it rough, and no nightmare could make her fear his love _._

He hadn’t kissed her yet. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered hot and roguish.

“This wall, _vhenan._ Have you any notion of the other side?”

She did. She heard him go to bed, heard him bid adieu to Oric none too softly in the hall. Her lustful eyes made her answer, her fingers curling in the damp and furry collar behind her forceful lover’s neck.

“ _Mmm,_ _that’s right,_ _asha._ Your jesting man-child of a king. How many chambers stand unoccupied in Castle Denerim, hmm? Do you suppose His Majesty’s proximity to my alluring mate coincidence?

 _Imagine._ Angry Fen’Harel comes rushing to his lover’s rescue in the night, just to find some half-dressed _shemlen_ fretting at her bedside like a would-be knight in shining armor. **I nearly _slaughtered_ him.”**

Her eyes rolled back with a lavish moan as the jealous god suckled her earlobe. His hand left her neck, and she heard his belt go clinking, felt his pants go loose and slide. Her impatient hips writhed against his stomach as he growled his final words against her neck.

“You are **mine.** The king will **learn.** You seek forgiveness from the Dread Wolf, little goddess? Teach the impertinent bastard who shares this wall with you to _say my name.”_

Without further delay, he took her as she liked. She whined with excitement as he let her hips slide down the wall to meet him. She reached down to yank her flimsy garment from between their bodies, and she caught the faintest glimpse of his rigid manhood before his chest and shoulders came to press her once again.

He kept his hands upon her thighs, pushing towards the wall. Though their rocky love was still brand new, his cock came home to roost without the slightest fumble. It was as though they’d never stopped, as though he’d loved her every night for centuries.

Though he pressed her slow and gentle, it did not take the ecstatic bleating Elvish lesson long to start. As soon as his hips went rocking, she begged his name like an over-eager zealot, by _no means_ quiet or a lady.

He sucked her neck as he maintained his oscillating rhythm; she couldn’t help but notice how he left her mouth alone. He wouldn’t want to _interrupt_ her, after all. His ministrations kept his Elvhen name bouncing ‘round the room, and she could _hear_ his wicked grin of satisfaction cracking ‘gainst her neck. His obvious delight only made her louder.

_“That’s right, wicked mate of mine. Tell him. Let him hear how **wonderful** you are.”_

Though they were only minutes into their engagement, his fingers slid between their bodies then to drive her home. Deft twiddles sent her thrashing, her arms left his back and slapped the wall to brace, she clamored deep and wild, her voice a violent growl. Her eyes rolled back so hard, she may never see again.

“ _Yes, **GODS,** YES! **SOLAS!** Ungghhh!”_

They came in crashing unison, and her villainous lover did his part to make that _crystal_ clear. Even as she cried delight and seized around his shoving body, she watched him bare his clenching teeth with a rutting groan so loud it set the candlelight a’flutter at his back.

The sex was short, but _yes,_ Fen’Harel had made his point. A suitor from a fairytale once more, he withdrew with a sweet kiss and whispered love before the pair fell back together. He hit the bed beneath her with a bouncing _creak._

She kissed his jaw, she felt his firm embrace pulling her against his still-dressed chest. Lust ebbed, and she was _mortified_. Her cheeks were rosy red; he would see it, if his tired eyes weren’t already closed. She gave her fading man a shake, and he grunted with mild disapproval.

 _“_ Solas, what have we _done?_ The coronation – I’m supposed to _negotiate_ with him! _Gods,_ he’ll _never_ listen now!”

“Little goddess, his opinion is beneath us. Lay with me.”

His words brought immortal reality home, left her dumbstruck and staring. He disrobed in a grumbling tangle, and she saw how _tired_ he truly was. His feet were soiled, the skin around his eyes was dark. They righted themselves in bed, burrowing beneath the covers and meshing together as they were always meant to. He stroked her hair, she kissed his lips, and everything was fine.

Her eyes explored his near-sleeping face, but she could _not_ let him rest. She had so much to ask, so much to learn, so much to understand. A whole lifetime of questioning that dwarfed their courting interviews on Fade mechanics to shame.

“Solas?”

_“Ma vhenan’ara.”_

“What if I can’t fix this? What if…what if _none_ of it works, and I throw the world into chaos, or-… _gods,_ I can’t _imagine_ , what – “

His eyes stayed closed, his finger pressed her lip.

“ _’We’_ , _vhenan,_ not _‘I’_. We can only do our best. _You_ taught me that. If the amended world of our creation is beyond saving, we will work to tear it down if we can. I do not think it’s time for that.”

“But – _Solas._ If we tear it down, what then?”

The feeling in her voice summoned up his tired eyes. He kissed her lips before he pulled her cheek against his chest, enshrining her in love with his chin atop her head.

“Then there will be nothing left but us, _vhenan,_ and we will try again.”

So simple, and so soothing. She ran her fingers down his ancient back and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him. They murmured love together, toes teasing one another as they fell asleep. 

At once, the notion of the nightmares she'd suffered through for months became _absurd_. Fen'Namas would never know a haunted dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter has TWO pieces of associated media. No, YOU'RE out of control!
> 
> First, we have [this fantastic fanart](http://i.imgur.com/u6QjPen.jpg) I've wanted to share with all of you, courtesy of Karini. Tell her how beautiful it is, she's around here somewhere!
> 
> Second, Fen'Namas and Fen'Harel's super-sappy but amazing theme song. I do hope you'll listen. Enjoy! (Sorry for the ad, you know how YouTube is.)
> 
>  
> 
> [Kishi Bashi: Bittersweet Genesis for Him AND Her](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynx_tvMX4lM)
> 
>  
> 
> In the beginning, we were scrambled together  
> Mixed in a celestial bowl and hand-fluffed with a feather  
> And the tears of bliss were not amiss;  
> It was a good day.
> 
> On the second day, we created the earth  
> Tickled in irony as we made love upon it's girth  
> And to our delight, the sun gave us the stars
> 
> The creation of the moon was a miracle of light  
> Descended from the rift in the dark star of night  
> My veins pulsed butter as it illuminated your thighs
> 
> On the fourth day, we felt compelled to whistle  
> For how could we call the love birds to nestle  
> And keep us company in this world anew and fresh?
> 
> Today, I paint to life a portrait of a sacred friend, the perfect wife  
> In synesthesia
> 
> Together we have filled the world with colored wine,  
> But the story nears the present time  
> Of restlessness and wake up calls...  
> Wake up. Wake up!
> 
> Years have flown fast, but then, who's counting?  
> The wars have been won, but there's few left standing between us  
> And the shadows of Christmas past
> 
> Critically acclaimed, but sadly underrated  
> Fortune definitely favored us, but no one celebrated  
> Our wits were splitting at their ends...
> 
> We gazed upon the city lights  
> We each laughed aloud one final time and agreed:  
> This is one thing we'll miss.
> 
> And as we held our breath and forced our will,  
> The minutes stopped, the air was still,  
> and minds began to unlearn their faulted ways.
> 
> We blasted through the hills!  
> They were the first to go, and the most painful so,  
> Because we made them first when we learned to bleed  
> With our fingers on the seeds that we sowed in the dirt  
> And then cried when we came in the glorious masterwork of life ending  
> And beginning again.
> 
> We ignored the pleas of the forests and the seas  
> As we scorched the earth with our tears  
> We burned them in fear  
> Until there's nothing left  
> Nothing left  
> Nothing, _nothing_ left
> 
> But us.


	12. Cole's Desires Were Always Pressing (What Do You Want?)

An ironwork bell was hanging from the ceiling beam inside the unmarked door. Indelicate clamoring announced his entry.

At first glance, the dimly lit shop appeared unmanned. Though the floor was scattered with the same mud-brindled straw that covered every floor in Lowtown, Cole paid what he considered common courtesy by scraping crud off of his boots o’er the edge of the alleged blacksmith’s stoop. He carried half the Alienage across Kirkwall in his aching arches, it would seem.

As he stepped inside he heard the grating rhythm of a file rasping hot against some metal edge. It made him miss observing Harritt. He closed the door, the bell signaled again. Still, he was alone.

The Hanged Man and his supper lingered right around the corner, and the sun was sinking low. His clothes were wet, his cheeks felt hot, his favorite friend was waiting. Was he not _anxious_ to go visit, to have a bath and change?

Why yes, of course he was. But Cole’s desires, when they came, were _always_ pressing; he was helpless to deny himself. The shopping had to happen **now.** Sneaking fingers ventured an interested poke at the moth-eaten taxidermy bear of legend snarling endlessly beside the door.

No staffs for sale, no bows, no flashy metal armor. Naught but a refined selection of leatherwork and blades. Cole tingled with enthusiasm. _Yes._ This was the place.

He battled his congestion with an unattractive hock that would’ve dug poor Josephine an early grave. Gloved fingers pressed the nagging channels ‘neath his eyes. He squinted stubborn through his ailing haze at the weapons on the wall.

He’d had a headache once before, when he spent an hour weeping in despair. _Ugh._ This one was just as bad. His face felt _bloated,_ swollen.

Well, no matter. Cole rarely acquiesced to his undervalued body’s needs until he had no choice. He obstinately shed his gloves and got down to business with a somber face most people never saw. He took nothing half so serious as shopping for a blade.

He flexed one sword to know the nature of its temper, and he found it more than sound. He checked the next for balance, flipped it deft and eyed the hilt. He gave flame-hardened alloy a sharp _flick_ with a nerve-bit fingernail to make it sing. An unrushed gaze down trued-perfect length accompanied the lightest thumbing ‘long a glinting, razored edge.

Every weapon he assessed, he placed back in its brackets with regardful care. Dorian would send Cole squawking o’er the edge of Kirkwall’s cliffs if he knew the rogue’s intentions to go patronizing deadly craftsmanship whilst sporting Emissary garb.

Well. Dorian was not around, and Cole’s desires were _always_ pressing.

The rear door leading to the forge did not require a bell. He heard it open, though, and turned his head to see a strong-armed woman stomping ruddy-cheeked in from the twilit cold. She smacked heavy leather smelting gloves against the doorframe, she dragged her boots against the rushes on her porch.

Varric made no mention of secluded maven Brishen being a woman. Here she was, and she made Aveline appear a mewling kitten. The flawless products of her unassuming smithy would bring Harritt to his knees with admiration bordering on shame. Cole entertained a passing fancy of introducing them.

He put the final blade away and approached the roughhewn wooden counter bisecting the room, unable to wrest his venerative stare from the woman’s pock-marked face. So rapt was he, he plum forgot his cold. As his bare hands spread to lean upon the counter he asked after her identity to start the conversation.

It was not a question of confirming obvious reality. The moment he laid eyes on her, he knew.

“Are you Lady Brishen?”

In spite of Cole’s atypically firm tone, Brishen eyed the unarmed, fair-faced man she judged to be a laic lad as though he had three heads. She shut the door and moved to hang her gloves upon the wall. She did everything with slow deliberation, as a person of her skillset rightly should. Brishen was, he found, another woman of few words.

“Just Brishen. Can’t deal weapons after dark in Lowtown, boy. Get out.”

Cole understood enough to know that squealing with ecstatic praise o’er her craft would _not_ see his desires fulfilled. He pulled solemn status then, accented by a show of coin.

“My business won’t cause trouble, ma’am. The Guard-Captain escorted me here personally. I am the Viscount’s guest, and my mission here in Kirkwall is a peaceful one.”

As he spoke, he reached into his coat after the pouch of sovereigns Varric gave him weeks ago. Aside from trifling souvenirs for his magpie of a sweetheart, Cole hadn’t spent a cent. Somehow, he had more respect for thrift when his money didn’t come from corpses.

His words had her attention, though her countenance was more than skeptical. She mirrored his leaning posture on her counter. Her heavy brow sank a glance at the distinctive jangling velvet purse Cole placed matter-of-factly between them. A grunt of suspicion. She leveled with him once again.

“You spend the Deshyr’s coin. Did you steal this? What’s your name, boy?”

At that, Cole laughed, one pealing note of disbelief. His businesslike demeanor broke as he shook his head and rubbed behind his neck, surrendering his efforts in their staring stalemate. His stomach rumbled, and his cold came creeping back into his field of recognition.

“Varric’s _family_ to me. He mentioned your skill, so I came. The money was a gift. Oh – that’s right. Sorry. I’m Cole.”

Understanding dawned, but it only made her cross. Her lip curled with disdain as she sat upon a stool, thrumming her rough fingers brusquely on blade-marred wood.

“I believe you’re Varric’s kin, _Cole,_ the way you skirt the truth and waste my time.”

Silence then. Cole beheld the testy woman with a toothy grin of apology, eyes tracking for a way to mend the air. Brishen flushed with choler as she stared expectantly, waiting for the man to state his purpose.

The dearth of speech lasted maybe five, eight seconds. She closed her eyes and pressed her great hands ‘gainst the counter with restraint, expressing failing patience through clenched teeth.

“ _What. Do. You. **Want.”**_

“Ah! Yes, sorry. Throwing knives? I didn’t see any.”

His request went muttering at the end.

“And drafting paper, please.”

A long breath through her nose, and she pushed off the counter to stand. She gained a side door, the room she entered was quite dark. A powerful sneeze into his kerchief harmonized with a slamming cabinet he couldn’t see.

She returned with a roll of blackest leather tucked beneath her arm. One yank at quick-knotted cord sent the supple mat of knives rolling open ‘cross the counter in front of him with a padded whisper. She watched him, ever skeptical.

“A little small for you, boy. You’ve got fingers like a spider.”

He shook his head, distracted as he marveled at her work.

“Not for me.”

He slid one of the blades free from her place among her sisters, turning the grip in his fingers as he fell in love. The knives came in three distinctly weighted sets of six. Artfully applied abrasive oxides left the metal matte and black; not so much as a glint would hint at origin of flight. He tested balance, found it sound as he’d expect.

His inspection lasted moments. Even so, his expert handling seemed to earn Brishen’s quiet respect. He did not test the fastness of the harness on the leather case; her craftsmanship was testament enough. He slid the blade home and moved to re-assemble the pack.

“Perfect. I’ll take the lot. Please craft a second set, as she’s bound to lose them practicing.”

A wordless nod, and she reached beneath the counter to acquire the paper he’d requested. She set graphite before him with a _click._ She did not call him boy.

“Be quick. The hour grows late.”

His face went dark as only Cole’s could do. He took a breath as if to steel himself. He shook his head for private reasons and took the graphite in his fingers.

His free hand braced his throbbing brain as he brought Veyla’s measurements to life on paper.

So fierce was Cole’s discomfort at his own human nature _,_ his ability to recall the landscape of her body to the inch set him scowling. The wide Orlesian mouth that made his smiles so dashing made his deep-set frown grotesque and sour. It was _not_ a flattering expression.

Still, in spite of ugliness, the glowering persisted. As he rushed to get the drawing over with, his mood dropped through the floor. His hand moved in a trance as he lost himself to tortured, abstract thought.

The curves were slim, but they were there, and they were _lovely_. He was **_helpless_.** The same pressing desires that made his kisses fleeting now had his teeth grinding in his skull.

Yes, Cole ignored his body’s needs. He would fight the need to eat, the need to sleep. Just today, he raged ceaselessly in the face of some transient disease that sought to rob him of his time.

 _Needs,_ he could tolerate.

It was _desire_ that left the legion-killer powerless.

Desire and despair, to Cole, were very much alike: A want for things forbidden or denied. For desire to become despair, _futility_ was key. Futility, he knew from talks with Solas, was more frequently than not a state of mind.

One nearly always has a choice.

Even before Cole was Cole, he’d been a wholesome spirit moved by curious desire. That spirit would have _never_ felt a young man crying in the dark if he hadn’t been so covetous of life beyond the Veil.

 _That_ had been a spirit. Of _Compassion,_ yes, and **not** desire? Misguided murders in the spire of Val Royeaux were driven by his burning want to _matter,_ to exist, to do something and do it _right,_ the all-consuming craving to be helpful.

He told Rhys he’d been confused; he had. He still was.

But it was more than that.

Where does desire leave a **man**? A _man_ has free will. A _man_ has a choice. A _man_ , by nature, is _not_ wholesome. Desire drove Cole’s human mind insane, and he was **beyond** lousy at telling himself no.

Solas insisted that a man’s desires and the demons manifest beyond the Fade were and weren’t the same. Cole could not tell the difference anymore. He would do _anything_ to see his desires fulfilled. He could lie now, if it would get him what he wanted, and he _did_. To his dismay, to lie was _easy_.

Desire rushed him in the night and made a slave of him. It bade him bite his knuckles, gasping, hissing, _begging._ Hoping beyond hope that he was not Cole’s father. _Dreading_ that he was. Remembering this spitting-image face that wasn’t his, and yet it _was_. It **_was._** Fearing that the tainted blood rushing in his veins would take the reins and make him _hurt_ her.

He couldn’t say yes. He _couldn’t_ say yes.

But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

_What do you want?_

Desire had Cole by the throat everywhere he went, even now. It bade him stand here, rudely late and sicker than a dog, spending lavish coin that wasn’t his, sketching as he thought of her, as an entire _group_ of people waited, grumbling his name with pissed concern.

Selfish. Desire made him selfish. It flew defiant in the face of how he saw himself, and he was powerless to best it.

Had he _ever_ been a spirit of compassion?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

These thoughts in spans of seconds as he scrawled to finish. The killer in his mind made fast work of finding eighteen practical locations on the garment for concealing tiny blades. At the bottom, he wrote and underscored a word with flawless penmanship.

_ black _

He slapped the graphite down and moved to leave, tucking Veyla’s fine and deadly present in the crook of his arm. His mind was numb, his face still cross. He heard paper rustling as the leatherworker looked it over.

_Ha…HAH-CHOO!_

His kerchief came almost too late, and he groaned with aching misery into his hand.

_Stupid body. **Ugh,** I feel **terrible.** I wish I was dead._

“Andraste bless you, Cole. This design – I **do not** arm children.”

Brishen was not the best at handling emotion. The deep personal offense her heretofore good-natured patron exploded with caught her quite off-guard, made her eyebrows stick up high. It was typically _her_ _job_ to be churlish.

“She’s not a **child.** Alright? She’s a _woman_ , and she’s **Dalish**. She’s just _short_.”

“Ah. I see that now. As you say.”

“Bill any excess to Varric, and deliver it to him. Don’t say what it is, just put my name on it.”

Indignant and embarrassed, Cole thudded numbly from her shop without so much as a thank you or goodbye.


	13. The Keepers' Keeper

The Keepers’ Keeper was a quiet young man, and stern. His arrival sent hushing hums a’rippling through every meal, and his immitigable austerity was the stuff of growing Dalish legend. (As was, of course, his talent.) The elf made  _eating_ look severe. The boldest of his fellow clansmen would attest: His personality was not affected by The Fall. He’d always been this way.

Five steps, and a question would approach. Five more, a beseeching favor. Quarrels on tradition, contested rights within and between countless decimated clans. The Keepers’ Keeper tended all alone and never voiced complaint. When he passed, even City Elves across the creek inclined their heads with nervous smiles.

Nearly every Keeper had been butchered in The Fall. Some of the more seasoned Firsts rose above the tragedy to wield authority and guide their people with commanding grace.

Some of them did not.

Still other clans were altogether  _lacking_ Firsts. New leaders were elected on that fateful char-streaked night of huddling terror. These clammy-palmed new Keepers had the worst of it.

These times tried authority, competent or no. The rending loss in every heart, the whispered rumors of the Dread Wolf walking in their midst. And the changes;  _Gods_ , the changes. They rolled with endless force.

The Keepers needed Keeping, and they knew it.

Every tongue revered the Lady Lavellan. Rumors of Una's instructional affiliation with her clan's youthful Keeper spread like wildfire to desperate Dalish ears. When their gracious Lady was nowhere to be found, all eyes turned to her pupil.

Thalis Lavellan acquiesced to His People’s needs with unflinching grace. As the Emissary brought his shell-shocked people home, the Grand Keeper greeted every soul to give his name and offer of himself. Tending such a massive flock was taxing, but he rose to the occasion with his shoulders stiff and stern.

Used to it. He was  _beyond_ used to it. Service was the only life he knew.

The shackles of the mage's life came biting young. Though the Dalish mark not age, a retrospective eye would venture Thalis ten and Veyla nearly six. They shared their mother’s eyes and mousey hair. Sister snagged their father’s joyful smile and kept it to herself, while brother likewise bogarted their father's height and shapely arse.

The dragon kept the rest.

The orphaned siblings slept together. Not casual, but  **fierce.**  They held each other vising tight. The hashing pattern of his rough-spun tunic marked her cheek for hours after waking,  _every_ morning. He did not give it words, but he alone remembered. He used to chide her when she wet his bed. Of course, it never helped.

To this day, beholding chilly dawns through tangled lashes took him back.

Unmoving Veyla puled his name against his chest until he woke. He stirred, he muttered grumpy scolding. She was  _always_ crying over something. He sent his hands to paw at lengthy lashes. The pesky things snagged thusly every night.

He found his arms were pinned beneath the stiff unyielding covers, as was she. Her escalating whimpers rose as vapor, though t'was summer. Callow father-brother whispered unconvincing comforts to neither child’s avail. He tried to lift his head and yelped as every hair yanked painfully against the frozen ground.

His mind began to race, confused; he did not  _feel_ cold, though the air that found his lungs smelled sharp and fresh like snow.

 _Da’lenlin_ was cold.  _Da’lenlin_ was  _trembling_.

Terrified, Thalis shouted out for help. Of all his clan, the river bastard rushed the quickest. His suddenly-tutor traced a hasty gesture the likes of which he’d never seen, and then her shoving hands against the bedroll set them free. She squeezed now-sopping children tight and wept o’er little Thalis with a mournful whisper.

_“No, no, **no.**  Not this, not you. Oh,  **little one.**  I’m sorry, Thal. There’s nothing I can do.”_

He did not understand her fear, but silent tears went sliding down his cheeks as her urgent lips pressed atop his head.

And then, through a tangled golden curtain soiled with earth and crunching leaves, he saw them: The People. _His_ People. They roared with frenzied praises of Mythal. The air around him thundered with their exaltations, a pressing throng of family oblivious to one child’s timid heart that trembled like an injured bird.

From that fateful morning on, Veil-borne strengths and obligations hemmed in every facet of his life. The remnants of his already foundering childhood days were gone, and his bed was more than cold. Veyla slept with Una then, and Thalis slept alone to keep her safe from nighttime casts that rarely came. While she refused to act her age with time, bitter weeping in the dark aged the gentle boy enough for both of them.

The river bastard’s tutelage surpassed anything his clansfolk had to offer. Her arcane guidance made him great. Though the outcast handled him with love and asked for nothing but attentiveness,  _Creators,_   **oh,**  the rest of them.

For  **them,**  his mind would not suffice. They’d have his body, too. His time. His life. His _soul_.

They  _had_ a mage, his teacher and their First. But she was not  _of_ them. Not many gave it public voice, but to them she was a tool, a thing devoid of love and legacy. They longed for the ascension of Clan Lavellan’s Veil-strumming Dalish pride, the better to replace her.

To that end, his people pushed and willed the child to grow. They’d clap their hands as they approached him bold to  _kindly_ chide for progress and demand a demonstration, their expectations thinly veiled with love he quickly grew to recognize as fake.

Una could not stop it. She could only teach the boy to stay his nervous shaking and endure with grace that far surpassed his age, as she had always done. She taught him fortitude, compassion, clarity of mind. She did not teach him **“No.”** No coach can share a skill they don’t possess, and she was younger then.

With every waking breath, he practiced. Little sister watched and kept him company, swinging all day long between the trees. To snatch her in his bleeding hands and make her squeal with laughter was the only pleasure Thalis knew.

As age and pressure mounted, even this simple joy was wrenched away. Deshanna caught them building fairy homes together on their bellies 'neath an aravel instead of practicing, and that was that.

"Young man, you squander The Great Protector’s gracious blessing. Her sun hangs low. What have you done for The People today?"

From that day on, his sister was forever scorned a burdensome distraction. Confused and lonely, little Veyla grew to blame her brother. Her love returned to him years later, but it never was the same.

Thalis had no  _time_ for love. By age thirteen, the stoic boy could not remember how to smile. As he aged, no woman caught his eye. He kept his hairstyle short and plain, for he could not be bothered with its care. His voice grew deeper than a boulder  _splooshing_ in a placid lake. Soon,  _too_ soon, not even Una saw him as a child.

His People could not mark him with adulthood fast enough. As he stood amidst the eager crowd, the prodigy beseeched his Keeper’s hand to gift the sign of Falon’Din. As he spoke, the boy was still without and trembling within. He voiced noble reasons, though in truth he had a secret wish to imitate his teacher.

“No, da’len.” the Keeper said. “ **We**  do not choose. The Great Protector surely sends your guarding hands.”

Denied, the orphan sat obedient. His mind turned to mentor’s litany as he sought to rein resentful bile that billowed at his Keeper’s double standards and refusal of his choice.

_A wise mage does not lose his mind to thoughts that do him ill or have no use. A wise mage takes life only to protect it. A wise mage finds his stillness in the transience of pain and permanence of self. A wise mage sees the truth._

His young but calloused hands found his lap in a trance. Unfeeling eyes slid closed. Thalis sat unclenching through the burning hellfire on his face with the sufferance that was his training’s greatest curse and mercy. Every eye he’d ever known devoured his strength; they cheered when it was done.

Mythal’s sun scorched the tender skin around his eyes. Reflexive pawing at his tangled lashes sent him yelping every morning for a week. He’d remember, he’d set his fingers icy, and he’d rise from bed to live another day that wasn’t his.

By the time they dispatched Una to the Conclave, his sense of self was broken, dead, and gone. He lived and breathed His People’s duty and tradition.

So thrilled were they upon receiving news of the river bastard’s abdication, an ireful soul might wonder if His People sabotaged the Conclave for themselves. In his months as First, Thalis Lavellan could do no wrong – they respected him and took his every somber word as Dalish gospel.

And now, a scant ten years from waking in an icy bed of fear, Thalis was the youngest and most venerated Keeper in the world.

The influx of new naked faces seemed to never cease, and the Grand Keeper saw fit to bear them greeting to the elf. Thalis held the task of welcoming His People into their new home  _imperative_. He kept himself so busy, there was time for nothing else. So his life had always been, the only way he knew to live.

And yet, life beyond the clan was… _different_. In the chaotic days following The Fall, his eyes went wide to see the world as ne’er before. Though Namadalan was very much an elven place, the prime movers from the Inquisition left the sheltered man transfixed.

He made his first two friends as if by mistake. The Scout, the Emissary, and the Keepers’ Keeper; between the three of them, survivors had no fear.

Thalis coveted the company of his newfound durgen’len friend. Scout Harding was the first and only dwarf he’d ever met. He found her cheery, strong, full to the brim with  **life.**  Her skills at tracking were unmatched. Lips that never praised a soul could not praise her enough, and he peppered her with endless questions much as little Veyla pestered Varric and Dagna in her short time skulking Skyhold.

Scout Harding's friendship gave him joy enough. And still, there was the Emissary. Imagine, _oh,_ the _thrill_ to know another mage.

The siblings shared another interest, it would seem. Brother likewise fancied sneaking forbidden kisses from a  _shemlen_ dressed in white. 

Deshanna’s corpse would writhe and blight the soil for miles if she could see the Keepers’ Keeper now.


	14. The Beauty of a Clean Kill

The sun was setting, and the rest of them were seated at their meal that came for free. He breathed, he nocked, he let the arrow fly. The deer fell with a squalling bleat, its cry softened by distance. Though he’d been a hunter since before the girl was born, his tongue seized with pride behind his teeth, his nostrils flaring smug.

His reluctant pupil recoiled at his side when the shaft hit home. It made him scowl. An expression his face was more than used to, though it pulled more wrinkles than it had in seasons prior.

“Flat-ears make you soft, girl. The Keeper was right, asking me to teach you. Can’t your Dalish eyes see the beauty of a clean kill?”

He felt a spiteful glare. Her snark cooked rage in him.

“We aren’t _supposed_ to say flat-ear anymore. Besides, Solas is a better marksman than you’ll _ever_ be, and _he_ doesn’t have to kill to know it.”

The insult made him bare his teeth and strike her hard across the face. Impact split the air like a cracking whip and echoed through the pearly hardwood forest. She made no yelp of pain to satisfy his ire.

If Fen’Namas _weren’t_ squishing barefoot through the garden of a King?

Or if Veyla’s killing ghost _weren’t_ shopping sneezy for his sweetheart in a city by the sea?

 _Or,_ if Fen’Harel _weren’t_ hours away across the woods, pulling hillocks from the earth with all his might?

Aaran’s entrails would be glistening on the trees.

“You may talk back to your coddling brother, _girl_. You will **not** talk **back** to _**me.** "_

Shooting and tradition were the only things he cared to understand. He was, hands-down, the finest living marksman in his clan. His zeal for upholding tradition marked him as a beacon in these troubled times. He touched his naked face and made regretful prayer to Andruil every morning.

For his devotion to their culture, for age implying wisdom, and for heroism saving children in The Fall, The Keepers’ Keeper chose Aaran to fill the void of First. For every member of Clan Lavellan, his word was next to law.

He shoved his bow into her hands so roughly, it took all the force of her defiant will to keep her feet.

“We cannot _afford_ a useless whelp like you. Your insolence has cost the clan **enough.** You **will** hunt. Do not make me regret the flesh I lost in turning back to save you. **Come.”**

They approached the fallen deer in silence. He heard his bow knock against a tree and snapped at her for being careless with his weapon, swore he’d strike her if it happened again.

As they stood before the beast he watched Veyla’s eyes go soft with pity, sinking to her toes. _Blasphemy._ He would break her of it **now.**

He took the ironbark skinning blade from his belt and dropped it to the ground beside her, stepping back with a sour scowl to cross his arms and watch.

“Dress my kill.”

Her eyes snapped to the blade, to him, beseeching for reprieve they would not find. His eyes narrowed as he glowered down his once-broken nose at the young woman, insolent in her hesitation.

“Your pity shames Andruil’s gift. You **will** pay respect. **Dress the kill.”**

He watched her gaze go hard, her eyebrows pinching fierce. Another second of that expression, and he would have slapped her face with all his might.

But she turned away. He watched her kneel and place his bow in the vibrant grass with care, watched her take his blade in her small hands. She ran her reverent fingers down the dead beast’s furry belly. Her voice was low and firm.

“You aren’t going to teach me.”

“Don’t _mock_ me. I showed you five seasons ago. Do it **now.”**

He watched her face as she sank the blade beneath the deer’s sternum, jaw clenching so tight her cheeks began to flush. She guided his shining knife down the midline of the creature’s stomach. Blood came gushing, organs spilling, he heard and saw her trying not to vomit. He snapped at her when she refused to watch her hands; she must, lest she cut herself.

Without guidance, what would take Aaran five minutes took Veyla nearly half an hour. He would bark corrections if the blade’s angle went awry, lest she pierce a bowel or damage muscle needlessly. Ten minutes in, he began badgering her flinching pace. He told her it would spoil the meat, and urged the gore-soaked girl to hurry up.

She was slick with blood well past the elbows by the time she finished, and her clothes were ruined. Her face was streaked with red from itching at her nose. The sky was dark, although the trees did softly glow.

She threw down the doe’s esophagus and found her feet, leaning forth to wipe his blade clean on gutted sorrel fur. She offered up his knife with a clenching gesture of respect, saying nothing. He accepted, and he spoke.

“You are too small to carry her. I will do the rest. In seven days, I will deny you meals until you make a kill. Practice, girl, or I will watch you starve.”

A long sigh through her nose, and she nodded curtly in response. She stood stock still before him, rigid with restraint and barely bridled rage. He’d known the girl since birth – he was beyond shocked at her self-control.

Also a surprise, she now knew better than to walk away without his leave. He granted it, expecting her to dart away like the whining child she was.

She didn’t. Veyla parted from her First with pride, her shoulders back, her head held high. He reflected on her growth as he watched her walk away. Just months ago, one loud word would send the girl crying fitful to her brother.

A silent nod of recognition, and he sheathed his knife. She was not a child to him anymore.


	15. Fen'Harel Will Never Let You Out

“Your talent never ceases to amaze me. The clout and skill required to Fadewalk ‘cross a continent is extraordinary, _ma vhenan_. I am curious, however, regarding your intended method of return.”

An even tone to veil frustration bordering on rage. For most, the veil would work. To _her,_ the veil was thin. Unexpected castigation pulled mossy eyes he loved down from the moon, her brow hitching with surprise.

“The _Fade?_ But Solas, this is just a dream of mine. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t the moon _splendid!”_

Her mollifying grin insisted all was well, and Solas watched her gaze resume its worship. She must truly be convinced to doubt his word in matters of the Fade; she never had before.

Fen’Harel was waist-deep in the center of a salty desert spring, its sparing waters crystal clear and still as he. One could see the shifting sand between his toes and more, if looking.

Fen’Namas was perched upon a jutting sandstone boulder at the water’s edge, every inch of her a vision singing in his worried heart. Her knees were folded ‘neath the gown she fell asleep in, locks of golden wheat spilling ‘round her wrists as the youngest goddess in the world leaned back to behold his jealous brother’s starless sky.  Mythal’s glacial moon lit her body like a fallen star, her rare and cherished spirit glowing every bit as bright.

He had to get her out of here.

He knew this place, and it was small. Towering canyon walls of orange-red laced with creamy ribbons of mineral and time encircled the oasis. On foot, one could not come or go from here. Not much more than sand to see. The sand, the stone, the pool, the moon, and them. Fen’Harel had no wonder at his lovely mate’s intentions; for all intents and purposes, the secluded spot _seemed_ safe and intimate.

On both accounts, Falon’Din’s abandoned inner sanctum was anything but.

At her words his eyes went dark, and he began to move. Water whispered ‘gainst his body, growing shallow with his steps.

_Leave her, brother. She is **mine.**_

“No, Una. This is _not_ a dream. You’ve pulled us through the spanning Fade, clear across the _Banaluth._ Come down from there at once.”

_“…What?”_

He gained the bank beside her, and she slid down to meet him in a daze. They came into each other’s arms as if by reflex, and she tucked her head against his shoulder as protective hands spread wide across her back. The sacred water dripping from his naked body caused thirsty grains of sand to coalesce in clumps around his feet. Though the air was _always_ warm here, a shuddering chill crept up through his spine. The Fade here did not love him as the rest.

“I’ve seen this place in dreams since childhood, _ma vhenan_ , but never once in person. I did not realize the place was _real_. How could I bring us here? Should we just wake up?”

 _“No!”_ He snapped and jerked her hard against his body, possessive fingers digging in her back. He repeated with a semblance of composure, but he did not ease his grip.

“No. It is imperative that you remain asleep. Close your eyes, _vhenan_ , and remember where our bodies are. Let the desert go.”

Fen’Namas attempted to comply. Her eyes slid closed, her unmarked forehead found his thewy shoulder. Her flattened hands ran adoring up his back as she whispered, his lips twitching with pride and love in spite of circumstance.

“We are in bed together, _ma vhenan_. The linens match the drapes, like velvet wine. The pillows are embroidered silk, the loveliest I’ve seen.”

He relaxed his grip to trail his fingers down her back, purring encouragement as he cupped her shapely buttocks in admiring, covetous hands. He felt her flesh quiver at his touch and swelled with confidence, his own eyes sliding closed to banish fear and concentrate on guiding his straying lover home.

“That’s right, _vhenan._ And at our feet, a copper tub.”

“I had a bath before you came – it’s huge. It took five servants several trips to fill the thing, and they refused my help.”

A heavy nasal breath, a rumbling chuckle. One hand came to trace her jaw, and he gazed down into verdant eyes that opened at his touch. Fade spirits of the _Banaluth_ were already creeping curious after the uniqueness of her soul; a lesser man would not stay his panic with such grace.

“I, for one, will require a bath on waking. I do recall a certain soapy incident from months ago – You owe the Dread Wolf intimate relations in that tub before departure on the morrow, _ma asha._ Fen’Harel does not pardon his debtors.”

He watched her eyes go soft with love, and then his aura pounced. He reached and failed, he clenched his teeth. Even with this risky press of whispered passion, he could not grasp her soul and pull her free.

She felt his magic probing her and misread his desperation as an act of lust. She chuckled deep and smooth, whispering love and leaning up to kiss his lips that didn’t move. She pulled her head back from his stillness, puzzled. Her smile melted with sudden dread, and she looked over her shoulder.

“Solas…Something _big_ is out there. I feel it. What’s happening?”

“Una, be still. Look at me.”

She did, and he observed atypical and warranted dismay. The tip of his finger traced his brother's blighted Vallaslin that wasn’t there across her milky cheek as he swallowed hard, glaring with determination at his own reflection in her eyes.

_Beloved. There is **so much** sand in you._

His will denied the torpid spiritual force that flowed like thick molasses ‘cross the Fadeground from the east, threatening with time to spill into their would-be desert haven and consume them both.

Firm, sharp, he snatched her hand and shoved it on his cheek. “Your thoughts still chase the desert heat. I am next to you in bed, _vhenan._ Look at me. **Think of me.”**

He watched her nod. Sheer will set his glare to soften, for no woman can lose herself in worried eyes.

He felt her then, at last, her unknowingly recherché spirit whispering delight at the thought of him. He saw his shoulders there, the hollow of his neck, the dimple in his chin. She conjured up the corded contours of his body with no need of looking down.

He heard the timbre of his voice in her, and came to know the thrill she felt every time he spoke. He watched her blushing heart fancying him selfless. To himself, he smugly disagreed.

When Fen’Harel’s clandestine blooms of cornflower blue started sprouting in the desert of her soul, he snatched his prize with all his godly might and yanked her home.

The Veil around her lurched like sucking quicksand, thicker here than anywhere. Sluggish malice came dripping thick and black as tar down the wall behind her, harbinger of a possessive will.  Conglomorative spiritual resolve to seize her soul caused Una’s eyes to snap; he saw her move to turn her head and see, he screamed to stop her.

_“No!”_

His words echoed distant and repeating. Her eyes held his and burned with understanding. Still, he pulled.

His aura fizzled gray and sick along it’s fraying edge, his mind taxed to the limit with the feat of folding Fadespace as he had never done. Their bodies blurred, their faces evanesced, and the Veil tore audible and real around them both as the bested apparition of the _Balanuth_ shrieked with defeated rage.

They jerked awake at once, like waking from a dream of falling off a cliff. Solas shone with clammy sweat that drenched the sheets, it made them twist and stick. The Fademancer began regaining his composure within moments, breathing hard and heavy as he stared up at the ceiling, gathering his wits.

He heard her at his side, but did not look.  He clutched the dainty hand that found his chest. His heart was careening there.

 _“Vhenan,_ what **_happened,_** what _was that!?”_

He took a deep breath in and held it, closed his eyes. He released slow and steady through his nose before he spoke.

“It seems I gave you more than I intended, Fen’Namas. You now possess the uncanny capacity to traverse Fadespace with no more effort than subconscious will. I suppose the nightmares kept your new ability… _preoccupied_.”

“But I thought you had to _be_ somewhere first, to go there in the Fade. All that time you spent sleeping in ruins, I don’t – “

He cut her off, his eyes still closed. His familiar tone was scholarly. “It is possible, _vhenan,_ but foolhardy. The energy it takes can leave one stranded. Not all entrants to _Uthenera_ go willingly.”

Speechless, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling with him. It was a while before he spoke again.

“Una. I must comprehend your gift enough to teach you, for I have never seen the like. Until then, you can _never_ fall sleep with me awake. Do you understand?”

A distant whisper, deep in thought, her sharp mind rooting for the truth. “Yes. But why that place I imagined as a little girl? What does it mean, _how_ can it be real? Why was it so… _hungry?”_

“Why were the spirits of the Fade hungry, pursuing you? I believe you know the answer _._ You brought me there with lust. You meant to dream, not Fadewalk. The Fade is _not_ a prudent place for making love.”

She sounded vexed, as though she thought him daft.

“But that wasn’t just the _Fade_ , Solas. You said it was the _Banaluth._ Why did I take us there? **Why** is the haven of my childhood in a realm I’d never _heard_ of?”

 _Oh,_ the ease with which the trickster lied, even when he’d sworn to Fen’Namas a dozen times to stop. His tired eyes moved to watch the early rays of morning trickling through the window, and his mind threw half a tantrum over lack of sleep.

“The surroundings appeared as your subconscious wished them to, _vhenan,_ and were certainly a construct of your mind. It was not the _look_ of the place I recognized, but the _feel_. It is not uncommon for some portions of the Fade environment to manifest a visitor’s innermost thoughts. You have seen as much before. I need not remind the Inquisitor of Adamant.”

Her sigh sounded dissatisfied. He sat up with a huffing, animated yawn, he stretched his arms and arched his back with drama. The covers tangled in his legs as he moved to straddle her, smirking down with a cocked eyebrow and a slowly shaking head.

“If I had known the many splendid woes of taking you into my bed, Lady Lavellan, I may very well have stayed alone.”

So secure were they in love, she was by no means offended by his jive. She snorted as she slapped his chest and cracked a smile, successfully distracted. He did not want to see his lover worry, and he knew well enough the damage she could do in digging for the truth.

He was lucky. If she had not longed so urgently to love the man for weeks, his ploy would have  _never_ bested Lady Lavellan's exacting mind. If the situation were different, she would suspect him doubly of duplicity.

“You are a _liar,_ Fen’Harel. _Besides._ What use have gods for sleep? Have a bath with me, and I will watch you eat those words.”

He caught her hand and licked her inner wrist, deceitful eyes sparkling triumphant down upon his ill-gotten treasure and her sultry invitation.

_You will never have her, brother. Fen’Harel will **never** let you out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader's guide: To assist in parsing.
> 
> What lies did Solas tell?
> 
> 1\. “Why were the spirits of the Fade hungry, pursuing you? I believe you know the answer. You brought me there with lust. You meant to dream, not Fadewalk. The Fade is not a prudent place for making love." 
> 
> Partial truth. Passage mentions the "uniqueness" of Una's soul several times. Fen'Harel covets her in part for how unusual her spirit is, and the Faderealm of the Banaluth feels much the same. He has never discussed the nature of Una's soul with her, although he has mentioned how rare her spirit/soul is in passing.
> 
> 2\. “The surroundings appeared as your subconscious wished them to, vhenan, and were certainly a construct of your mind. It was not the look of the place I recognized, but the feel. It is not uncommon for some portions of the Fade environment to manifest a visitor’s innermost thoughts. You have seen as much before. I need not remind the Inquisitor of Adamant.”
> 
> Flat out lie. Solas recognized Falon'Din's sanctum, knew exactly where they were. It is a real place both in their world and in the Fade. Solas, for whatever reason, does not want Una to realize that.


	16. It's Fine.

Between Brishen’s storefront and The Hanged Man, Cole’s foul mood did not improve. The walk was short, the air was dank and frigid. Though his gait was far from stomping, his white-clad legs and backside were generously splattered by his steps with gritty mud. He’d quite literally had it up to _here_ , just above his belted hips, with Kirkwall’s slipping filth.

Tawny light glowed rich through foggy windows, spilling like an angel’s blessing in the murky street. Aspects of the boisterous racket growing louder with approach were quite familiar; husky laughter rolling in a sea of countless yelling people, all struggling to be heard over each other. Like Herald’s Rest but louder, and much bigger. In spite of lacking music and the private suffering of drunken souls, the noise reminded Cole of home. At least, the closest thing to home his spirit knew.

He sneezed into his kerchief, the poor thing sopping slick with overwork. He hocked snot in his scratching throat as he passed before the window, oblivious to the catlike reactions of some observer keeping lookout for a man with platinum hair dressed all in white.

Even as the wooden threshold creaked beneath his weight, the door flew open inward to reveal a backlit woman. A surly gesture of her thumb urged him in out of the cold. Her sleeves were rolled, her chestnut hair was tied back in a bun. She held a soggy tatter all her own, a beer-stained rag for wiping bar.

It was the barmaid’s low-cut dress and heavy bust that gave him stumbling pause, that sent his bootheel hitching on the step. It was not a warring thing, the discomfort that sent his tired eyes straight to the stars above the tavern – _no_ part of him was pleased. After such a harrowing encounter with streetwalking sexuality this morning, the aspiring gentleman was plum fed up with human women and their jiggling bosoms.

“ ** _Corff! Varric’s man is ‘ere!_** …Well, _are_ yeh Cole, or _aren’t_ yeh? Git **in,** then! Yeh look li’ roasted shite.”

No words made an answer, but his filthy boots complied. As he stepped into the bustling bar, many conversations paused as people turned to look at him. The change his presence caused was audible and real. A hundred eyes or more, including hers, and all of them were curious. Cole still held Veyla’s deadly gift in the crook of his arm.

Any other day, the attention would have thrilled his heart that hungered to be known. Tonight, right now, it only made him want to sink beneath the floor and die. _Guh,_ his head was pounding.

“Go on, then. ‘E’s in the back.” That thumb again. The woman left Cole be to serve some patron’s summon, much to his relief.

Time moved at triple speed in bars – by and large, the members of his audience returned to their pursuits. Cole made his way ‘cross squeaking floorboards scattered thin with straw, weaving soundless and untouched through the lively crowd towards Varric, food, and **_bed._**

A scene of two, then, stopped his progress. His backside brushed against their table to avoid a stumbling drunkard. When Cole turned to offer his apology and carry on, concern stayed his tongue and wrung his brow.

He did not need to hear their souls to know.

She was young, and she was very beautiful. Cole knew from endless iterations that this girl was surely blind to her own loveliness. The stately mole upon her forehead, a thing Orlesian debutantes would primp with kohl and pride – that would be her reason. Teasing from the miller’s son. Perhaps the butcher’s portly daughter called her moleface every day and threw cold oxblood on her shoes. To Cole, the details couldn’t matter anymore. To _her,_ they were the greatest burden of her life.

Before he interrupted, she’d been laughing large and fake with sparkling teeth. She started when he looked at her, her silent mouth still open as her brown eyes found his face. He knew those eyes for frightened.

Frightened, yes, but not of him.

Though the laces in her bodice _could_ be trained to chaste pursuits, her nervous fingers swirled and fussed a loosened tie. Her breasts were smaller than the barmaid’s, as Cole was sure she’d insecurely noticed upon entering this place. Nonetheless, the blushing maiden bared her brazen flesh to earn the beast’s attention.

And what a beast he was. His hungry eyes sought only conquest. Cole didn’t bother looking for the rest, for he knew his search would come up dark and empty.

Such was not always the case – more oft than not, the man across the table was a wayward soul, or just as young and lost. Those men? Perhaps they’d fall in love, or become friends, or cringe and blush and shake their heads with what-am-I- _doing_ apologies. From _them,_ perhaps, a girl could come to love herself a little more.

This man could offer no such thing.

Cole’s eyes found her brown ones once again, even as the seated man glared threats. The approaching deshyr’s drunken cry of love fell upon deaf ears. **“Kid!** I was _certain_ Aveline tossed my handsome nephew off a cliff. C’mere!”

Cole’s whisper cut the chaos. A white glove reached to stop her fussing at her bodice strings.

“My name is Cole. What’s yours?”

She was a deer caught drinking, then. Her fingers curled around his thumb. So shocked was she, she asked her name to him.

“Elise?”

“Elise. You’re beautiful.”

Tears lined her eyes, she looked away with blushing shame. Still, he held her hand. The chair beside him scraped against the floor, the man stood up and grabbed Cole’s coat just as Varric came to stand between them. “Just who in _fuck_ do you –“

“ _Easy,_ Rork, he’s with me.” Varric slapped his own warning across Cole’s back, muttering low and angry. “Kid, you’re picking a fight in my bar. **Knock it off.** This is _not_ the Inquisition.”

The young woman was mortified at first. Her eyes skimmed the other men before returning to Cole’s bloodshot steady gaze. Somehow, the way he smiled at her, the way he willed her to ignore the rest of it – she found peace in him, felt as though they were the only people in the bar. He gave her hand a squeeze when she finally smiled back, and he pulled her willing to her feet. “Elise. This isn’t love, it isn’t safe. It makes you sicker. Let me take you home.”

Varric cursed beneath his breath. Rork gave Cole a powerful jerk that tore his shoulder’s seam, he shouted threats obscene. The entire bar was watching silent, anxious for a fight. Varric bellowed for control, commanding Rork to let it go or leave.

Still, Cole did not acknowledge Rork at all. He shrugged passively out of his assailant’s grasp and made to guide the embarrassed young woman home. Staring patrons parted for the pair.

Rork had decent aim, but the half-full bottle lugged across the room did not stand a chance. Even though his hands were nearly full with Veyla’s daggers and Elise’s hand, Cole swerved deft and caught the projectile mid-air. He set it upright on a table by the door, which he held open for she he treated as a lady. This simple display of expertise set the lookers-on to whooping. As the door came shut behind them, Cole discerned a rumble of applause.

\---

“You can’t _do_ that shit, Kid. Folks can see you now, remember?” Softer then, a muttering to himself. “I can’t believe you didn’t pack a sodding _thing.”_

Cole had a belly full of chamomile and Fancy’s fancy figs – Varric spoiled his swiftwind, as he did everyone he loved. His sick bones were melting tallowy in the deshyr’s steaming dwarf-sized bath, his knees tucked near his chest. His head was resting on the tub’s fluted edge, a dripping washcloth draped across his face – it helps the snot, his old friend said.

“I don’t pack the first time. The travel magic makes it hard. I never know where it’s going to put me, if I haven’t been where I’m going before. And I – _Cough! Cough! **Ahem-hem**. _ – I don’t think I can make it work like this, to go back and get my clothes.”

A quiet grunt of understanding; Varric was a master of Cole’s sometimes cryptic talk. The dwarf milled around the sleeping chamber of his suite, digging in a dresser to Cole’s right. The bar’s never-ending jovial racket trickled through the floor. Varric sounded agitated.

“You owe me an apology, Kid, and I’m not hearing it. Have you been skipping chapters in your etiquette book again?”

A phlegmy cough beneath the washcloth ‘fore he spoke, reciting. “A gentleman, when acting out of order to another man’s offense, admits his wrongs and offers up sincere remorse.”

Varric nodded as he tossed sleeping clothes too wide and short for Cole upon the bed he never used. Veyla’s throwing knives were there – Varric wondered at them for a moment, pulled the string that held them fast and inspected them with silent roguish stealth. His eyebrows wriggled once, impressed.

“Uh-huh. And?”

He blew his nose into the washcloth, setting it aside before he spoke. He did not notice Varric wincing in disgust. **“ _Sincere._** I can’t apologize if I’m not sorry, Varric, and I’m _not_. You shouldn’t serve men like him.”

“This is _Kirkwall,_ Kid. If I didn’t serve ‘men like him,’ I wouldn’t have a bar.”

Cole refused to acquiesce. He grumbled like a pouting child, leaning forward in the tub to wash his gritty hair. “I _hate_ it. I hate Kirkwall.”

A tired sigh, the dwarf pulled up a chair to sit beside the bath and pat Cole’s elbow folded on the tub. They smirked at each other, though Cole could barely keep his eyes open. “That’s three times you’ve told me, Kid. How long you staying?”

He lifted his head, wet strands the color of pale butter clinging to his cheeks. He took Varric’s proffered towel and pressed it to his face, words dampened through clean fluff that smelled of sunshine.

“Five days, I think. The Hahren asked for four; they always want another one. They’ll send a page for me if they have questions.”

“Tough luck for them, Kid. Their questions can wait. This crud will keep you down in bed for two full days, at least. I’ll write to them for you.”

Cole nodded in miserable surrender to his cold, pulling his face from the towel. He hesitated, watching Varric patiently. Varric grunted with recognition and muttered an apology, turned his chair to face away. Cole’s old friend and battle partner was not accustomed to his new-found modesty.

Varric knew the boy he fancied family was sick and tired; still, he was so curious, so pleased to see the blooming man he missed.

“So, _throwing knives_ , huh? Those for Pixie? You two still a thing?”

Water rushed as the aching spirit found his feet and stepped onto the mat beside the tub. He shuddered at the stinging air as he wrapped his body in the towel. Though his answer was admonishing, he sounded more good-natured than he had in hours; her name had that effect.

“It’s not polite to dig in people’s things.”

“Did you ever get her _flowers_ like I told you? Knives aren’t really-…that’s not a _romance_ thing. You _did_ read that book - ”

 _“The Courting Cavalier._ I read it twice. It doesn’t fit.”

“It’s a _classic!”_

Rustling cloth; Cole was dressing by the bed. His voice got snooty and defensive, much to Varric’s squirming delight.

“It’s a _human_ classic. She’s _Dalish_ , not some made-up giddy…”

Varric didn’t need to look; he could _hear_ the flustered blushing. He grinned, he shook his head. He heard Cole climbing into bed with an exhausted sigh.

“You’ve got it _bad,_ Kid.”

No response beyond a dismissive grunt. Varric crossed the room to take a hip on the edge of the bed, protectively brushing wet hair from Cole’s burning forehead.

“Not good to go to sleep with wet hair when you’re sick, y’know.”

Cole’s yawn became a cough half-through; he rolled over with his back to Varric and curled up in a ball. The bed was firm, the linens crisp and fresh. Cole preferred soft and rumpled, but he was far too sick to argue with a mattress.

“S’fine. G’night.”

But Varric would not leave. He gave Cole a nudge. “Hey. You two…?  _You_ know.”

Cole groaned and closed his eyes, burying his cheek against the downy pillow. “No.”

“Do you think about it?”

**“No.”**

“I don’t buy it. ...Did you read _Summer Bliss?”_

Another groan, louder in its protests. _"Ugggh!_ _Yes._ You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk, Kid. What’d you think?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s _fine?_ ”

“It’s **fine.”**

Varric’s hand came to rest on Cole’s blanketed arm. He gave his friend a squeeze. “We need to talk about this, Kid. It’s normal. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Cole’s eyes came open at Varric’s touch, staring achingly at nothing in the dark. His voice was soft.

“I don’t want to.”

Varric sighed long and slow, giving Cole a firm pat as he rose from the bed. “Suit yourself. Sleep tight, Kid. Night.”

“Night.”

In no time at all, the door clicked shut. Cole closed his eyes and pulled the covers over his throbbing head, waiting for his racing heart to calm and let him rest. Sick as he was, his careening pulse kept him waiting for almost an hour until the laughter from below eased his troubled mind to sleep.


	17. Look Into My Eyes

Cole was accustomed to the realm of sleep by now. In _Namadahlan,_ he never had a nightmare – none who slept there did, save one, and even _she_ was done with painful dreams. In his little white-washed home with bedding softer than a cloud could be, Cole would dream of floating in an endless sea with still waters clear as glass, watching swirling colors in the sky. Some nights, he simply dreamed of rain. Other nights, Cole became an ever-hungry rabbit in a world of crispy lettuces where wolves had never stepped.

In his most frequent and by far most _favored_ dreams, Cole became a farmer with a sturdy hilltop cottage and a pretty little Dalish wife who fed the birds. He would love her there where everything was safe, the giggling pair so blissfully alone they had no need to draw their gauzey curtains closed.

Privacy. In dreams, Cole came to covet privacy.

Pola’s timid yet persistent knocking _always_ seemed to prematurely terminate Cole’s fantasies of making love with Veyla – _always_ Veyla. _Oh,_ the way his throat and lusting body whined with yearning for release on those interrupted mornings. Invariably, Cole would wake from these lovely visions with his mouth muttering romance ‘gainst a pillow clutched beneath him, his blankets twisted ‘round his squirming hips. When it came to love, the one-time spirit was a very _active_ sleeper.

 **That** was in _Namadahlan._ **This** replay bade him clutch his pillow to his chest for very different reasons.

Abroad, his dreams were never joy. The now-mortal man who’d so long delivered empathy unto the secret suffering of others had no shortage of scenarios o’er which to fret and hurt. Though his nightmares were never pleasant, memories of things this body lived through in another life were by _far_ the worst.

Though the nightmares racked him _during_ sleep, they never broke his waking spirits. He always rose with somber resolution to forget and live the day. There was never screaming, not like Cullen, not like endless other tortured minds he’d seen. Perhaps it was because the spirit in his heart was made for harboring the pain of others.

Or perhaps he inherited this lock-jawed silence from his vessel's Chasind mother. Cole's Mama _never_ screamed.

_“Cole. Come here. Mama needs to show you something.”_

His mother’s voice that afternoon when she found him panicked, beating baby sister’s flames from curtains with their only tattered table cloth. She was crying, she was sorry - she’d been _trying_ to light a candle for big brother’s birthday cake that wasn’t real. It was early afternoon, and Papa wasn’t home. This was their only time for playing.

Mama never chided them for accidents. She feared her children’s untrained magic only for the beatings wrongly earned.

She showed her son the dagger, then. A Chasind blade with hilt of braided leather, straight and even. She showed him where it lived, a hollow in a stanchion of her wardrobe.

_“We must keep it hidden, Cole, to keep it safe. You’re a man, it’s yours now – Hush. Papa’s home. Hide in here, and keep your sister quiet.”_

Papa was _outraged_ when he came home to find the scorch marks on the wall, the plates Cole broke from yanking at the tablecloth. He _demanded_ to know where ‘her’ evil children were.

Mama lied to him again, she said the children ran away. Cole _was_ here, and so was little Bunny, and they were hiding in their mother’s wardrobe. The musty furniture held everything she owned – the children and the knife. Their father robbed her of the rest.

His slender fingers trembled as he clutched his little sister’s mouth and nose to keep her whimpers quiet. Cole was far too tall to fit, yet somehow here he was. _She_ was more than small enough.

He could not tear his eyes away from watching through the slender gap between the wardrobe doors – his Papa, with a face like his but wrinkled at the corners, screaming words of hateful castigation as he loosed his belt. Mama set her eyes, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t make a _sound._ She never let her children hear her hurting.

They’d seen it done a hundred times, they’d had it done to them. He wished he had more hands to shield her ears, to shield her eyes, to shield his likewise battered baby sister ‘til The Thing was over, though he knew The Thing would not exhaust itself for hours and would get much, _much_ worse before it ended.

Cole winced with his whole body when his Papa’s belt cracked. His eyelids tried to clamp and couldn’t. The terrified young man stared on and watched the beating, feeling helpless. He clutched his sister tighter, though her breath had stopped and she was still and limp.

Whipping, cutting, bleeding flesh – he could _hear_ it, he could _feel_ it, he had known it all his life. The whipping stopped, a stumbling, Papa slammed his bedroom door, the only door their tiny house could boast. Cole heard the iron-spring bed rattling and shook his sister, whispering fitfully. His every joint was screaming with the strain of staying hidden.

_“Sissybun, we need to leave. The window, we - …Bun?”_

His breath caught in his throat, his tear-streaked face went rigid and he shoved the wardrobe door to let the sunlight in. Her body almost fell from his lap onto the floor. He grasped her threadbare dress to stop her falling, and her head fell forward like the broken doll that Mama made and Papa threw away.

Cole never understood that he had smothered her to death. To him, his baby sister died of fear. Until his dying breath, he blamed his father. Just as well – it _was_ his father’s fault.

He trembled as he wept, his fingers petting her angelic yellow hair, her body frail and delicate against his heaving chest. In the rage that followed, the young man found a strength he never knew.

His crying never ceased. He sobbed even as he set his baby sister in her hiding place. He brushed her hair out of her face, he shut the door. The squeaking of the bed was violent now, though Mama’s voice was silent. This brutality was where he came from, Cole knew, and his sister too. It was the only kind of sex the boy had ever known. There were no words for how he  _hated_ it.

He clutched the braided hilt so hard it marked his palm. He heard the bed, he heard his own wailing sobs. He heard his feet go rushing ‘cross the room and kick the door.

Though he’d had the beating of his life at Papa’s hand just days before, Cole learned that day that he was taller, stronger than his father. Who could know how long that blatant truth eluded him? He grabbed the man that sired him by straw-tinted hair and jerked him from atop his mother, slammed his back against the wall. Still, Mama said nothing.

To watch his pants-less father cower ‘neath the blade that pressed his throat brought strength surging in Cole’s clenching fist. He had no need of magic here; only Mama’s knife would do. His every muscle shook with tension, his voice quaking with nerves.

_“You should’ve killed **me.**   **Sissy** didn’t hate you.”_

_”Boy, drop the knife. You’re **sick.** What have you **done?”**_

_“Look into my eyes, **Papa,** and I’ll **show** you.”_

The man was helpless to refuse. The memory would burn through time into another life: Two spitting-image faces sprayed with blood, neither one remorseful, one with wrinkles creeping in the corner of his eyes.

Cole woke with a sharp breath and snapping eyes. He always came to laying on his stomach. The curtains were so heavy, he had no notion of the time of day or night. The bar beneath was silent as a grave. The only light inside the room was a fire dying in the hearth.

Something kneading at his back-…a _cat?_ Varric has a cat? Cole held still as the creature curled between his shoulder blades, purring raspy in his ear. The comfort forced a wry grin ‘cross his face, made his belly tingle with delight.

His eyes scanned the dimly lit room to find his clothes upon the floor. Yes, the Chasind dagger of his former life remained. Cole kept the thing with him religiously, though the story wasn’t truly _his._ He’d rise from bed to fetch it, strap it to his leg where it belonged, but…Well. The kitty cat might not come back.

A foot reached out to sound beneath the covers, hooking on the corner of the knives he’d bought for Veyla. Good. The blades are here, and all of them are safe.

He muttered friendship at the kitty-kitty on his back and closed his eyes, content to resume sleeping. Cole would be pleased to find that nightmares weren’t persistent when one slept with a friend.


	18. Even Anders Wore Pants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and love to all my readers, both seasoned and new!
> 
> It _looks_ like I've irreconcilably derailed the fic with my fluffy Cole obsession. I promise, I haven't. I could have waited, combined all of these cutesy Cole chapters into a lengthy solidarity. I don't like to go that long without posting something. :) The other characters will exist again. 
> 
> So, anyway. Here's the snippet for today!
> 
> Oh. Also. I will update this new collection periodically! Feel free to subscribe if this kind of thing interests you. 
> 
> **[Fen'Namas Deleted Scenes: The Smut& Scraps You Never Saw](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3401468/chapters/7446149)**  
>  \-----------------------------------------------

Varric wasn’t kidding; two precious days in bed with velvet curtains drawn, once vibrant life reduced to a vicissitude of sleep and tea and toast. The Deshyr sent the buttered stuff away and ordered dry, for he knew his friend’s eccentric palate was repulsed by oily things.

Cole likewise came to pass capricious judgment on all jams and jellies, much to his host’s sniggering amusement. So much _feeling_ from the smallest glomming clump he tasted with a dainty silver spoon, dropped clattering upon the matching tray with a recoiling _yeck!_

 ** _“Euggh!_** It... _stays_ too much. Stripping, pressing strong, heat happened where it shouldn’t so the juice is gone …abomination. Grapey parts are missing. Please, no thank you.”

He _would_ eat toast. He would not take it cold, he would not take it dark or underdone.

Not that he gave his preference voice beyond rejecting jam – to do so would be impolite, he knew. If the state of proffered toast was less than satisfactory, he’d simply lie and say he wasn’t hungry while his persecuted tummy rumbled doleful contradictions. The busty barmaid Norah nearly strained her eyes with rolling them as Varric taxed her up and down the stairs all morning, resolved to parse the spirit’s cryptic taste through cut and try. She, for one, was of a mind to let him starve in bed.

When served parameters _did_ please his whimsy Cole delighted in his toast, all golden brown and piping in his ever-chilly fingers. He learned to swallow bites of just-so size after hardly chewing, the better to assail the itching throat that made him squirm and rub the roughness of his tongue against the soft parts of his mouth.

When first the blessed toast ran out, Cole tried at scratching with a forky tine and nearly lost his breakfast. Ser Pounce-a-lot, his hard and fast companion in these troubled times, offered no contumely. (Kitty’s gracious manner may have changed if Cole had tried it more than once.)

\---

Norah dropped his plate of toast upon the bedside table with a wordless clattering that jarred him from his phlegmy snoring with a gasping snort and bade him jerk upright. As promised, upon day three’s waking Cole could feel a difference. Not as “better” as he’d hoped, but he sensed improvement nonetheless. His startled face felt tight, not full. Ser Pounce-a-lot was snoozing undisturbed in his three quarters of the bed.

“Up wit’cha, y’spoilt git. Some she-elf here t’see yeh.”

He almost questioned what he’d done to make her cross, and what’s a ‘git’? His queries left him when he heard the rest. His mind raced with excited wishful thinking that did not make sense. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, he plum forgot the toast.

“Oh. What does she look like?”

He stared anxious after her as Norah made to stoke the fire and heat his bath.  His raspy throat did not wish her good morning, nor did he offer gratitude for her begrudging care.

“Short hair, pointy ears. Eyes are too big, if yer askin’. Y’know, Dalish type.” Reflective, then, as if speaking to herself: “Sad, the bit abo’ the Dalish.”

Ah-ha! It must be Veyla, it just _must._ The giggling couple hadn’t spent this long apart since first they’d met. He missed her smile so much it _hurt._ How could she come to be here? Oh no - was everything alright?

Cole forgot his cold, forgot his toast, forgot his insufficient clothes. He stumbled out of bed, tripping up and nearly falling from his tangled sheets. He made a beeline for the door of Varric’s borrowed chamber, sporting likewise borrowed dwarven undershorts sagging loose around his slender hips.

If he’d stopped to listen ‘fore he threw the door wide open, he could have spared them all embarrassment and kept his disappointment to himself.

“Daisy, I’m _telling_ you. Whatever Chuckles is, he’s not a _bad_ person. Honestly, as much as you swear by the guy, I thought you’d be excited to meet him.”

“ ** _Chuckles?_** Oh, so that’s it, is it? Y’give the Dread Wolf a pet name and it’s honky dory? Are you **_insane?”_**

“Come on, now. It’s not that bad.”

“‘Come on now, Merrill,’ he says. ‘Hand your people over to the Nightmare Bringer’s abominated _shem_ like a good girl! Quit being such a fussbucket!’”

Though he was a people person, any audience could hear the Deshyr’s patience wearing thin.

“Maker’s Breath, he isn’t an _abomination_. Y’know, you’re making an _awful_ lot of racket for a woman with a sodding demon mirror in her hou – Morning, Kid. Feeling better? Ehm…breeches, maybe?”

Blue eyes half-awake and crusty wrestled with the situation, searching for a pretty grinning scamp they couldn’t find.

_Oh. It’s **her.**_

Crestfallen was the word.

Before he could collect himself, the clucking woman who’d accosted Cole’s every footstep in the Alienage beheld his scantily clad body with shock and disdain. She glowered at the gawking one-time spirit ‘til his wits came 'round.

**_Slam!_ **

 “Y’see?! He doesn’t even wear _pants!_ Even _Anders_ wore pants! **Eugh.** He looks **dead.”**

“Give the kid a break, Daisy. He caught the Kirkwall Crud from trying to _help_ your people.”

Cole groaned aloud at Merrill’s indignant cries of protest from beyond the door as his head fell back, his neck gone limp with refusal to cope. He was so _very_ tired of arguing with her, though he’d only met her once. She didn’t trust _Namadahlan_ , wouldn’t risk her Vallaslin to come and see, begged the _Hahren_ to deny Cole’s offered amnesty.

Though often timid, on the topic of Alienage emancipation Cole was a relentless pundit. He and this Dalish woman did _not_ get along, and _oh,_ he _hated_ arguing, hated the tiny part of him that fantasized about humanely killing her to get it _over_ with.

He groaned some more, and melted just a little.

Norah made no attempts to hide her smug grin, pleased to witness Cole’s suffering; to her, t’was blissful picky toast comeuppance.

“Not who yeh expected, then?”

Cole slunk across the room to wash his face and don the Emissary garb he loathed. He was too disappointed to concoct an explanation for this woman who refused to like him. He did his best to ply his civil tone, coercing her to leave.

“Thank you for the bath, Norah. Oh – Thank you. You didn’t have to clean my clothes.”

“Oh, right. Jus’ let ‘em sit and mold for days, then, an’ ruin the rug?” She turned her voice to address herself again, continuing the conversation even as she shut the door behind her. “Blighted idjit, wearin’ white leathers t’Kirkwall.”

The latch clicked smartly shut, the first pleasant sound he’d heard all morning. He _did_ look dead – he stared unflinching at Cole’s father’s bloodshot eyes in the mirror beside the tub.

His skin was ash, his lips and nose were parched and cracked. His fingernails were loud and scratchy ‘gainst coarse stubble on his jaw. He admitted to himself; he hadn’t looked _this_ ghastly since Haven’s sacking.

A deep breath to bring back color in his face. He watched the hollows of his cheeks stretch taut and round with air, he held it there until the old scar in his lung began to ache. He shook his head as he exhaled, slapping at his face and making quite a jowly noisy show of it before he dunked the whole production in the tub.

The bubbles rolling to the surface made him laugh and inhale water, on which he promptly choked. He pulled his face free from the tub with a sputtering gasp. Even as he gagged and coughed up bathwater, Cole could not stop laughing at himself. Ser Pounce-a-lot glared flat-eared at the racket from his pillow, unamused.

_Knock-knock- **knock!**_

_“Hoi, Kid! I know she’s a pain, but don’t **drown** yourself! She can’t stay forever!”_

**“EXCUSE me?”**

Cole and Varric shared their laughter through the door, mirth so fierce that neither man could breathe. The young man watched his own exhilaration in the mirror and came to hate his dripping face a little less.

An idea came sparking, then, one that Solas wouldn’t like. Maybe today _wouldn’t_ be so bad.


	19. Ma Tel'halani

Today, at last, they searched for Clan Fin’as. Judging by the Grand Keeper’s expression upon briefing his friends for their final rescue mission, Dorian and Lace both knew this clan was left to last on purpose. They gossiped on the subject while they trekked through woods as crisped and dead as all the rest. Every few minutes, one of them would interrupt to shout an elven proclamation of aid: _“Emmen garas tu halani! Ma’eth, hamin!”_

That had been the morning. The sun was high above them now, though they could not see it for the lichen-coated trees. Scout Harding had them ankle-deep in some blighted peat bog. The stagnant water swirling ‘round their feet was covered with a floating cloak of clinging moss. Dorian could not _see_ the sink holes, but Lace assured him they were there and urged the mage to mime her every step.

The gnarly trees were _ugly_ things. Occasionally, low-hanging lichen tried to slap his pretty face. The very _roots_ seemed to recoil from the fetid salty peatmarsh through which the travelers picked their ginger steps.

Yes, once or twice he spied a lovely orchid in the branches. _Epiphytes,_ his ever-perky guide remarked. What else was nestled in those twisted boughs that writhed above his head like living nightmares?

 **Snakes.**  The vastness of their ranks inspired terror most unholy. _They’re venomous, **some** of them_ , she said, _but not_ _unfriendly if you let them well enough alone_.

Wards would not suffice. Her peaceful protests fell on deafened ears: The Necromancer left a trail of snakecicles in his disdainful wake.

Oh, and by the by. Those plants that sprouted up on soggy muddy islands, the ones that looked like green and pinkish cocks? _Carnivorous,_ Lace cheekily explained. Dorian’s meltdown over _plants that **eat** things _ rivaled the screaming hysterics of that elfkit Pola just this morning, when the child came rushing to the empty breakfast table with a wicked gash in his pudgy little cheek.

They slogged along for hours. At last, a peat sink did him in. Dorian was so busy blasting polar punishment upon the fattest, _nastiest_ snake he’d ever seen, he did not follow Lace’s guiding step. Though she jerked him promptly from the mire, his lambskin boots were filled and done for. His rage echoed for miles.

 _“By the Dread Wolf’s hulking cock, falgard! Fasta vass!_ _Festis bei umo canavarum!”_

She did not laugh at him, though sarcasm nearly _dripped._

“Sorry, Dor. Warned you. _Boy,_ that rat snake sure learned _his_ lesson.”

 _“Rat_ snake?! How many _**rats** _ does it take to get that **_massive?_**  If there _were_ survivors, I think your _rat snake_ **ate** them all. Mystery solved. Let’s leave, then, shall we?”

Dorian propped one foot at a time upon a knurly tree root, using magic hands to coax repugnant water dry. His skills afforded him a comfort, sadly, that not all Emissaries to _Namadahlan_ could boast. While he worked to remedy his situation, Harding’s eyes were scanning. Always scanning, always wondering something.

“Hey, Dor. Speaking of Solas…I’ve been meaning to ask. Does Thal know?”

“ _Augh,_ this stink will taint my boots for _weeks_. Was it _strictly_ necessary, coming ‘round this way?”

“Yep. If any of them made it, this is where they’ll be. The muskeg is the only thing that didn’t burn. Sounds t’me like you didn’t put enough enchantments on those fancy boots of yours. All full up on _Runes of Dashing?”_

“ _Puh._ **’ _Muskeg.’_** You _know_ , it would be a _short_ trip, shoving that gorgeous freckled face of yours in this putrid **_muskeg_.”**

“I’ll remember that the next time you step into a mirepit, Soggy Boots.”

“Have I ever told you how _miserable_ you make me?”

“Every day. Have I told you how _pretty_ you are?”

A haughty snort. “Not _today,_ no. Be more considerate in the future – I simply cannot stomach breakfast without my morning compliment.”

“So _that’s_ why there was no breakfast this morning.”

“ _Exactly_ right. I told Solas to call the whole thing off. That hungry elfkit with the brand new scar, crying over biscuits? _Your_ fault.”

“Oh, _stop._ You’re terrible! Poor kid…”

They shared not laughter then, but silent smiles. His guide veered left, they soldiered on. The Necromancer wondered how _anyone_ could track Dalish elves through this rotten cesspool.

Silence lost to curiosity with time. Lace asked again.

“So?”

“Of _course_ he knows. Don’t _dwarven_ lovers tell each other everything?”

Her voice was mild, her eyebrows high. “Don’t know, handsome. Never had one.”

“ _Chuh._ You never give up, do you?”

“Newwwp.” She grinned over her shoulder as she cupped her hands around her mouth. _“Emmen garas tu halani! Ma’eth, hamin!”_

 _“Ma tel'halani._ Who sends you?”

Harding was surprised – _Dorian_ was mortified. They spun around in unison to behold the rasping sneak. The ancient-looking elf was standing effortlessly on a gnarly tree root, his bare feet somehow dry and _not_ covered in leeches. His deep-set wrinkles did _nothing_ for his Vallaslin’s appeal.

“Oh! _Ir abelas, hahren,_ you startled us. Lady Lavellan sent us to find your clan.”

“She sends you late, _durgen’len._ There is no more clan.”

Dorian was unmoved. He could see at once why the elves of Clan Fin’as had been left for last.

His clothes screamed savagery, his aged eyes remorseless and unfeeling. His voice hissed with superiority. When the elder spoke again, the Necromancer recoiled with audible disgust upon witnessing the revolting aesthetic of his rotting pointed teeth.

“By the _Maker._ Not enough dentists in Thedas…”

Scout Harding’s elbow found his ribs, her eyes shot scorn before they furrowed with remorse.

“Your entire clan… _Hahren,_ I’m so sorry. Let us take you someplace safe. The war is over.”

The elf continued as though Harding hadn’t spoken.

 **“Bring** her. I must speak to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Emmen garas tu halani! Ma’eth, hamin!_ \- We've come to help! You're safe, relax!
> 
>  _Ma tel'halani._ \- You aren't helping.


	20. Only Thalis Knew the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice, chapters have been posted out of order w/r/t sequence of events. I've done it to you in the past, and you handled it fine. I am confident in your ability to grok!  
> \---

While all Dalish in _Namadahlan_ slept with naught but campfire smoke between their bedrolls and the twinkling canopy above, young Thalis kept a tent out of necessity. If not for slanted walls of well-oiled leather, even slumber would afford the cherished prodigy no privacy. His People’s eyes were _always_ watching. Though the eyes were different now, the scrutiny was very much the same.

Since childhood, much like his teacher, Thalis was an early riser; such was his stock in life. The river bastard used to rouse him well before the sun, that they may practice unimpeded by perusing, “casual” observers. Back then, wee hours were the bastion of blooming talent’s growth.

This was his only private ritual, aside from nighttime reading. ( _Oh,_ but his tiny tent was cluttered so with books!) Today, as always, Thalis greeted consciousness well before the redstart warmed his charming pipes. The Keepers’ Keeper spent his mindless early mornings in repose ‘neath an absurdly bulky pile of furry, supple buckskins. To his relief, no practice was involved. Thalis _did_ work faithfully to keep his skill in tone, but the breaths that tickled dawn were his and only his.

Sometimes he would think on private matters, or on deific truths he could not bear to face.

This morning, Thalis thought of nothing much at all.

In spite of unproductive kicking at his weighty covers, overheated soles invariably rebelled beneath his pelts. He _could_ bend frost to comfort, yes, and stay in bed forever – but he did not dare indulge his muted self.

And so, today as every day, following one clockwork hour of reclining such, the young man wriggled free from his insular cocoon of hides. He found his feet, he took his staff in hand. He swept aside the flap that closed his tent.

The Keepers’ Keeper woke, as would his kin, among an endless sprawl of unexpected poppies bowing wet with morning dew. If he was surprised, he did not show it. Blossoms whispered at his ankles in the dark as he trod with a watchful eye through clustered sleeping elves. Though Thalis seemed to all the world unmoved by blushing flowers hued in salmon’s likeness, the early birds that sang to sweeten his patrol proclaimed delight.

A heavy day; the rising sun would start the Dalish rescue effort’s final mission. Their numbers, then, were set and done. Of the thirty-seven clans that scattered Thedas, their populations varying from scant to quite impressive, a paltry headcount of six-hundred eighty-two remained (Grand Keeper and his First included). These numbers were not widely known, though their ins and outs were the Grand Keeper’s somber business. The elderly were few, the children joyous many, and to his knowledge fourteen Dalish women were expecting.

Nine of these were widowed in The Fall. Two admitted to the Keepers’ Keeper and his First in tearful conference that their bellies carried babies without bonding.

Though Aaran took a breath to voice his scorn upon those should-be downcast mothers as Grand First, Thalis cut him off and would not have it: “Woe betide the elf who robs a Dalish mother of her pride.”

Aaran held his acrid tongue, nodding in begrudging deference. _Again,_ his elfkit of a Keeper brought him shame. (The timid women would have rushed the Grand Keeper with two heavy-bellied hugs, were his taciturn demeanor not so daunting.)

Though Thalis honored Aaran for seniority and counsel on tradition, overruling actions such as this were commonplace. The young man’s repeated explanation brooked no argument. “We must walk the middle ground. We risk offending half our population otherwise. Not all clans uphold tradition steadfast as our own.”

Aaran would stay silent sour for days, for he could not abide embarrassment and thought the boy’s progressiveness the final nail in the coffin of his people’s way of life. Resentment grew with every passing sun. In spite of respect for the station, it may be Aaran wished to oust his Keeper. The First was many things, but not a fool - he knew he'd die before he saw it done. Regardless, one could hardly call the reigning brethren _‘friendly’_.

All differences aside, Thalis gave the marksman credit where the stuff was due – when he said he’d trust no other elf to train his stubborn sister, Thalis spoke in earnest.

Yes, every Dalish child was precious. In the process of his morning rounds, Thalis stood at each expectant mother’s bed and gestured blessings in the air, silent prayers for peaceful birth. He did this not for sake of Keeper’s duty, but because his deepest heart compelled him. Though he never _wished_ to be their shepherd, his call to the Vir Atish’an was true. So stern was he, so linked in lore with ice, his reputation somehow overlooked the guarding nature of his art.

The yellow day was breaking. Aaran’s pessimistic whisper at his shoulder did not startle Thalis. Nor did he permit his First to interrupt his last and nearly finished prayer.

“I woke Lamli’s First, the herbalist. He doesn’t know them, and has never seen blue pollen. Could be poison.”

Unflinching movements of conduction focused and precise. Thalis placed a caring kiss upon his fingertips and spread that guarding will with reverence through empty air above the sleeping woman and her unborn child. With that, the thing was done.

He then took Aaran gently by the arm to grant hushed conference as the leaders walked among their sleeping charges to the clearing where they’d take their breakfast. A gesture meant in brotherhood, perceived as condescension. Aaran shrugged the hand away and stayed in stride. The Keeper’s staff swung easy with their gait, swishing through the flowers at their feet.

“It’s called a poppy, _lethallin._ A flower of the coastal plains. Unfamiliar to us, but not a threat.”

Aaran scowled. The word _respect_ did not conceal his rancor. “With respect. Though you walk the Vir Atish’an, you are not an herbalist. I do not trust your guess.”

A soul too stilled to rise in bile. Not armor, but an honest lack of feeling. “Your Keeper reads of parts unknown, that he may better guide His People through the rapid-changing world. He does not guess.”

Aaran’s nastiness intensified. It often did, so early in the morning. “Even in the shadow of the Dread Wolf himself, my Keeper questions **nothing.** You do not question flowers out of nowhere. You do not question meals that come without a hunter. **Keeper.** We must **leave.”**

Oh, if Aaran only _knew_ the answers Thalis had. A pity the young man had no capacity for feeling smug. He  _could_ lie, however, and he did.

“This place is a gift from Lady Lavellan, of that I have no question. As for the rest, I would not lead my kin to worry over things their Keeper cannot understand. Once we’ve made the search for Clan Fin’as, we may discuss eventual departure.”

Silence. Her name filled Aaran’s mouth with bile and bade him shut it.

All around them, _Namadahlan_ was buzzing into life. As Thalis had anticipated, His People were delighted by the blanketing of foreign blossoms. Likewise, he heard laughter and delight from their City cousins ‘cross the stream. Thalis did not mind the way the stems would catch between his toes and irritate his feet. Aaran was disgusted with the nuisance. More than once, he kicked the flowers from his toes and cursed.

Like every morning, the mismatched pair passed by Cole Rutherford’s tidy home on their way to breakfast. The _elgar-shem_ was always whistling merrily by now, his missing sing-song tune a sure sign of his absence.

Thalis tutted at the elfkit teetering on Elgar’s furry back upon the whitewashed threshold, too short alone to peer through high-set glass. Oh, if poor Pola only knew his favorite friend was sick in bed a world away. Cole would not return for _days._

“Cole Rutherford is not at home, young kit. Come down from there. Go to your mother.”

An empty threat, the only kind the spoiled rotten elfkit ever heard. Pola’s determined attempts at espionage continued; no Dalish soul could heed the Keeper less, save maybe Veyla. An older Keeper would have reprimanded Pola for his disobedience. A softer-hearted man just may have chuckled.

Thalis simply left the nosy child alone.

As the sprawling table came into view around the bend, he wondered after Veyla. Not so strange, the way this path made Thalis think of little sister. Their coincidental run-in this time yesterday was the most he’d seen of her in days. He interrupted Aaran’s stewing with a question as he mildly twitched a flower from between his toes.

“Veyla’s lessons?”

“She will practice.”

_“Ma serannas.”_

An added observation, then, unusual between them. “She is willful like your father, and may be too weak-hearted for the hunt. Her only use may be in bearing children.”

Thalis did not turn his head to make response. Though his voice was unaffected, his protective heart was not so sure. “Do not talk of bearing children. Veyla **is** a child. We spoke of marksmanship, not hunting skills. The hunt has made her weep since she was old enough to see.”

“Keeper, you are blind. She is a woman grown.”

The cobwebs twining ‘round his heart shuddered in an unexpected gust of anger. Older brother clenched his ironbark staff. **“Archery will do for now.** I would not have you try my sister’s gentle hand at killing. **_Do you **u** nderstand?”_**

 _Aaran_  could feel smug. He looked almost _pleased_ to hear the choler in his youthful Keeper’s voice. Still, the men did not look at each other. “Our meals will not come free forever, and our shrinking numbers will not replenish themselves. Even the Grand Keeper’s spoiled sister must earn her keep.”

So moved by argument was he, Thalis did not realize he’d gained his place at their communal table. Aaran did not _have_ a seat – the righteous elf flatly refused to dine on food that came with cost unknown. To do so, he declared, amounted to unwitting slavery.

Their conversation ceased. Thalis stood behind his chair, his lips and body still as he assessed the situation. His People and their cousins were arriving, multitudes of voices most redundant in their statement of the obvious: The table held no breakfast.

The Dread Wolf, it would seem, grew bored with giving handouts.

Only Thalis knew the truth. He’d seen him months ago, this unassuming flat-eared elf named _Solas,_ attending teacher’s side at the Arlathvhen. He’d seen him weeks ago, just once, walking through the distant woods with cheery Veyla at his side. When brother asked, she simply said, “a friend.”

If Dorian had given him the truth of it by then, Thalis may have nearly lost his mind.

Still, the truth did finally come. Thalis kept his mettle at the shocking news, far better than his tutor had. (Of course, _he_ was not _courting_ with the Lord of Tricksters.) Though his _shemlen_ lover stayed up half-way through the night convincing Thalis that the Dread Wolf was a kind and caring man, the thought of little sister giggling at his side gave stoic brother tremors.

He kept it secret, even from his sister, for he feared this truth would plunge his people into chaos. He merely pulled his rank with Veyla in a last-ditch effort for her safety, commanding that she sleep in camp and stay among her kin.

The good _that_ did was slim to none. No force could pull the huffing princess from her treehouse, and he did not have the heart to tear it down.

Matters pressed. The flowers, the empty table: there was no _time_ to worry over Fen’Harel’s intentions. In that moment, the Keepers’ Keeper faced a very real problem in the form of six-hundred eighty-one fussing tummies. Nevermind the City Elves, who seemed only half-concerned. Their cousins were beyond accustomed to going without meals.

Though some hunters _had_ been hunting for their clans, mouths far outweighed survivors with the skill. Theirs were the ranks hit hardest by The Fall. Insufficient hunters, insufficient game, insufficient time to think, their eyes, their eyes so easily afraid these days, their eyes were _staring, begging, **waiting.**_

Thalis did not panic, though he dearly wanted to. He did not need to raise his voice – every fated parting of his lips eradicated sound. The hum of fear bit tight to anxious silence.

“Calm yourselves. With the dangers we have faced, to miss a meal is nothing. Keepers.” He counted as the elves came forward, only some of them with confidence. Twelve of them were missing, none of which surprised him. He would find and guide them one by one, as he did for everything. As he spoke, he stepped out from behind his chair and came around the table to stand closer to His People.

“Send your readied hunters to my First. He will divide the hunting grounds. Clans with fewer than three able-bodied souls will work in teams.” His eyes left the Keepers then, and found their milling, finger-biting charges. _So young. So many children._

“The rest of you – be ready. Know that on the morrow, I may give the word to pack and leave. Today, I am uncertain. See to your children. Do not let them eat the flowers.”

None dared to question him, though the shock upon their faces was apparent. Aaran moved to action, shouting sharp directions as he stormed with purpose towards the camp. Thalis watched His People scatter to the wind and mutter ‘mongst themselves, his young mind deep in worried thought.

“My _my_ , ‘Keeper’. Aren’t we scrumptiously _sullen_ this morning. Do _all_ flowers make you scowl?”

Relieved as he was to hear his lover’s voice and smell his sweet cologne, you’d think the elf would crack a smile. He slung his staff against his back and faced approaching friends, arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“Apologies, my friends. There is no breakfast, and I must be brief.”

“I see. How **_dreadful.”_**

Dorian would not flirt with Thalis in _Namadahlan._ Those thinly kohl-lined eyes – he didn’t _have_ to.

The Necromancer folded his bare arms across his chest and cocked his head. His tongue squeaked against his teeth, his eyebrows whispered: _“Really? Solas runs five minutes late, and you’re in a tizzy? You **know** better. I should slap your handsome face. In fact, tonight, I  **will."**_

So expressive, and so honest. In _Namadahlan,_ Thalis’ eyebrows could respond with naught but steadfast duty.

The Emissary's chambers were another matter.

“I must tend my people. The sooner you return with Clan Fin’as, the better. Dorian, you have the map? The pictures?”

“For the third blighted time, _yes._ I will get us there. Fussbucket.”

“We’ve got it. You should lighten up, Thal! Your face will stick that way. Don't worry - it takes well over a month to starve to death. The Dalish are tough.”

Even among his only friends, sarcasm was lost on him in times of stress. “Thank you, Lace. About this clan, they aren’t – ”

The morning was _relentless_  in its will to interrupt and cause him strife. Here came Pola teetering ‘round the bend and screaming like a banshee. The front of the boy’s sleeping gown was blooming crimson, blood oozing from a wicked gash across his upper jaw and chin. His dog loped anxious at his side, whining.

Where Thalis would not move to chastise the naughty child before, he now overtook the wailing toddler quicker than a viper. Flesh knit to slender scar beneath his soothing fingers with a speed that would earn praise from even Solas, were he watching. The wound was closed and gone in moments, leaving only bloody clothes and skin behind.

Still, of course, the crying did not cease. Thalis had no way with children. Once healed, he promptly set the boy back down beside his dog to let the beast avail him comfort. He watched the boy go burying his face against the smelly whimpering hound who lapped in vain to clean the babe’s soiled clothes. He never asked the boy what happened.

_Young kit. **Where** is your mother?_

Lace whistled low behind him, shocked by skills the Emissary knew full well. _“Thal._ I’ve _never_ seen a mage close a wound that **_fast_.** I know the Inquisitor didn’t teach you _that._ ”

Dorian piped up, leaning low to elbow at her dwarven ribs. “Cole’d be dead and gone, you know, if not for him. Poor kid fell almost twenty feet.”

“I had no _idea!_ Thal, you’re **_incredible!”_**

Thalis knelt to wipe his bloody hand upon the ground as his friends chortled with praise. Esteem, from them, made the young prodigy uncomfortable. It beckoned masonry to bolster ‘gainst a wall already far too thick for friendship. He stopped them as he found his feet.

“Enough.”

“Are you _kidding?_ That’s – “

Dorian gave a knowing tut at Lace’s side. They shared a glance, he shook his head. Thalis then continued.

“You have dealt with violent clans. Whatever you have seen, Clan Fin’as is worse. Tread lightly. I have thought long on how you may approach these elves for rescuing. I intended to accompany you, but I am needed here. Dorian, do not attempt to speak with them.”

_“Pffh.”_

“Oh, they like dwarves? Do they do business with the Carta?”

“No, Harding. They **hate** everyone; they **butcher** _shem_ on sight.” 


	21. The Arla’Numinan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from Rise of Fen'Namas. A reminder, for parsing _qunin'lathan_ joke!
> 
> _“I see. I apologize for treading on the business of women. I would ask you something else. That word, qunin, it is not real Elvish. What does it mean to the Dalish?”_
> 
> _She had her feet on Una’s desk, looking quite pleased with herself. “Cow. He calls her a cow-fucker, because he couldn’t satisfy her. He means her edhas is loo –“_
> 
> _Solas’ eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped as he realized the can of worms he’d opened. He held his hand out to stop her talking at once._  
>  \------

The City Elves were timid bathers. Teams of women filled long bladders at the stream to hang them rope-slung from the lowest branches ‘bove metal basins meant for standing in. Communal as they were, his cousins took great efforts towards safeguarding privacy. Festive curtains hung from wooden hoops above the little tubs, and the silly elves – like this one, here – would wrap their bodies up in sheets to come and go from bathing. Sandals, they wore _sandals,_ as though the sacred muddy earth around their tubs could somehow soil their feet.

_So strange. Her feet look so **uncomfortable.**_

As was daily custom, Thalis watched and wondered at the cleansing rituals across the water as he padded downstream ‘long the Dalish bank, towards His People’s place to bathe. So flummoxed was the Keepers’ Keeper by this sight he’d seen for weeks, he did not take note of the ablution-bound young woman’s obvious embarrassment. He simply wiggled his own toes with walking ‘gainst a ground that teemed with flowers, his mind occupied with thankfulness for being Dalish. Unbeknownst to him, accumulating moments such as this earned The Keepers’ Keeper reputation ‘mong his whispering cousins as a “Peeping Tom.”

The stream did not become a river ‘til quite a ways outside established camps. While the gentlefolk were cooking a late lunch upstream o’er newly crackling campfires, here the exhilarated hunters came to bathe. The air above the river hummed with Dalish pride and purpose, a unity not felt since ‘fore The Fall.

The morning’s hunt had gone quite well, his bathing brethren eagerly agreed. Every living Dalish hunter, men and women both, traded praise together in the flowing water. Even Aaran had an air of liveliness about him, giving one satisfied young elf a slap across his back for landing such a buck.

He’d bathed alongside others his entire life. Though their conversations hushed an octave at the Grand Keeper’s approach, not one eye thought to bat when Thalis cast his staff and robe aside upon the poppy-peppered bank and stepped into the pebble-bedded river with his kin.

Rocks smooth and white as pearls shifted ‘neath his feet, water’s chilly touch tightening his nipples and the rest of him as he waded ‘til the level reached his chest. His stern demeanor bought him privacy. Though the gathering was large, the hunters carried on as though Thalis were not there. From the _fish,_ however, Thalis earned no special treatment; they nibbled boldly at his toes, like all the rest.

Even bathing, Thalis undertook with rigid severity. The same breath he’d held since childhood, exacting and precise. Inhale two beats, hold, and sink. Too much air, his lungs would ache. Not enough, and it took more than one descent to cleanse his face and hair.

He watched the fishes milling ‘round His People’s idly shifting feet through crystal water as he scrubbed his scalp. He closed his eyes to rub his naked face. A day of stress, a day of sweat. If only he could _feel_ enough to enjoy the simple pampering pleasure of his bath.

He broke the surface with a sharp exhaling breath, perfunctory touch moving through the top-to-bottom washing of the rest of him. He kept his eyes shut tight, guarding from the dripping of his bangs. They flirted with his luscious lashes as his hair had never done, left to grow at Dorian’s passive behest.  He’d picked it out the _second_ time an evening game of parlor chess ran hot with molten kisses.

_“Alright - this artlessly shorn head of yours. What **exactly** are you going for? Is it a Dalish tough-guy thing?”_

_“…? It’s practical.”_

_“’Practical?’ Fasta **vass,** amatus! You’re a lamer lump than Solas, and he's **bald!"**_

A snotty laugh 'fore Dorian’s educating kiss pressed Thalis back against that opulent tapestry of Antivan velvet once again, human hands strong and confident on elven shoulders. Thalis fumbled through the simple act, bracing ‘gainst the wall like a skittish, cornered mongrel. The moustache that disgusted Thalis when he first beheld the man now schooled the elf from sweetly daft to bumbling.

His lover gave him soap that smelled of cedarwood and myrrh that night. So shamefully _shem,_ that scented gift, Thalis didn’t _dare_ to use it here. He was terrified of it, that **stupid** soap, the lies it could untell – he’d left the lot at Dorian’s, pretending to forget.

He chastised himself for thinking on the memory, veins coursed with guilt and shame. Calloused hands, their tasks complete, broke the rippling surface to comb back mousey hair. When at last his eyes did open, Thalis became suddenly aware he’d bathed amidst _total_ silence.

In unison, His People faced the clothing-littered bank behind his back. None of them were speaking and all heads were bowed, save Aaran’s chin that jutted high and glared with searing hate.

Her voice was embered coal and silk. Deeper, darker than it’d ever been in morning practice. Still, he recognized his teacher at her first breath. He could hear her smiling.

 _“Andaran atish’an, Elvhen’len._ You honor me, but I would rather see your faces.”

The hunters raised their heads, pulsing with barely contained delight at their good fortune in beholding Lady Lavellan. Thalis turned around to find her highly coveted attentions calmly watching him.

He thought to find her changed, her eyes and purpose somehow alien – No. Here she was, with that same knowing look of secret empathy and pride she’d held especially for him since boyhood. Her ivory robes were new, as was the power glowing in her hand.

The rest of her, to him, was blissfully the same.

“Keeper. Bring your First, _falon,_ and walk with me.”

Thalis did not return her smile. She knew his way, and she was not offended. His People parted as he gained the shore, palms running flat along his head to wring the water from his hair. Wholly unembarrassed, he walked naked ‘cross her field of vision to his robes.

Aaran’s eyes shot daggers, his tongue biting back hates his station bade him struggle to restrain. His feet did not budge.

A mistake. The gracious Lady Lavellan embarrassed him in front of _all_ of them, sacrificing Aaran’s pride to build her own rapport. Her tone was mild and playful.

“So modest, husband? You act as though I have not seen your cock a hundred times.”

Her comment set the hunters snickering, though only six of dozens parsed a portion of her jab. Elves from other clans were clueless, but tickled to endearment by her teasing just the same.

“ _Qunin’lathan._ I am _not_ your husband.”

The timbre of his insult made the hunters silent. She chuckled, unaffected, almost _jolly_ as she turned her back to grant him privacy. “Ah, you’ve found room in staunch tradition for bond-breaking! _That_ is good news for both of us _._ As the finest Dalish marksman, you deserve a _pretty_ wife. I _do_ prefer my cattle.”

Laughter whooped, a couple clapped, one brave soul shouted his own bonding proposal at her back. She laughed, she said she’d think about it.

Thalis listened as he dressed, uncomfortable with the whole affair. He knew less about their brief and rocky bonding than his sister, and even she bogarted only _slivers_ of the truth.

Irrelevant. Unacceptable. Regardless of their complicated histories, Thalis had no recourse but to intervene.

_“Enough._

“My Lady. In mocking my chosen First, you mock the Grand Keeper and His People. I invite you to apologize, as your feet are fresh among us.”

Still, her back was turned. He did not see the way her eyebrows hiked, the way she grinned, so pleasantly surprised.  While devoid of remorse, her friendly voice contained no ire.

“By all means. _Ma serannas,_ Grand Keeper, for your grace.”

Her chin turned to make apology over her slender shoulder, tresses shifting on her back. “ _Ir abelas,_ Grand First. I shall take slow leave, that you may both catch up with me. We’ve much business to discuss.

 _Dareth shiral,_ my friends. A hundred pardons for trespassing on your bath. I look forward eagerly to joining you at dinner time tonight.”

An elf piped up as Una walked away, the same who’d laughing asked her hand. “Lady, you mean to say the food is back?”

“It is, _falon,_ but it will not last forever.”

\---

As the trio’s somber footsteps headed west, dappled sun through leaves of crystal revealed truths the shaded river kept in shadow: Una’s flaxen hair was tinted pink. Thalis quickly wrote the information off as irrelevant. Her hair offended Aaran to his core for a dozen or so reasons, but he held his tongue.

They did not speak, they only walked. As they passed Veyla’s perky little treehouse that made his belly twist in anxious knots, Thalis recognized at once where Una meant to take them. The Keepers’ Keeper knew the path by heart, as did his First, as did every Dalish foot to walk the soil of Southern Thedas. The way was long and pregnant with an awkward silence.

As they stepped into that destitute and dolent space, the complicated silence t’wixt the three of them became a single thrumming echo of despair.

The _Arla’Numinan_ was a glade of endless heartache and remorse. A black plane, charred and real, encircled by the same white trees that made _Namadahlan_. Every tree with roots that touched the blighted earth was scarred with carvings far too numerous to count, an endless roster ticking memories and loss. Though marked branches did reach wide, in the center of the dell an upturned mourner’s face could see the sky.

Every living Dalish soul paid homage in the Home of Tears, and others. For Thal, the place was nightly ritual. Marli, Pola’s widowed mother, arguably spent more time here than was healthy.

Cole would come here late, some nights, and soil his powder-blue pajamas weeping prostrate in the soot. He’d seen so many Dalish fall, he had half a tree of painful mem’ries to himself. Even Dorian and Lace had been to see the place, just once. Afterwards, they did not joke for half a day.

Though Una knew exactly where the _Arla’Numinan_ stood, this visit was her first. Slow steps minding jutting roots roughed with scores of fallen lives, her anchored hand dragging over every trunk that made up the perimeter. She closed her eyes and bowed her head as she circled the glade, touching but a fraction of the endless, _endless_ loss that rushed beneath her hand like wailing, begging braille. The trees were smeared with the countless downward-dragging prints of mournful fingers, their homage inked with mixing soot and salty tears.

Tears flowed freely as the Keepers’ Keeper and his First watched Lady Lavellan pay her respects. Her heart ached so fiercely by the end of her remorseful revolution, a guarding wolf came ghosting through the woods to check on her.  

Fen’Harel stayed hidden, as he’d been _expressly_ told to give this talk some space. The elf in him knew full well that his mate could likewise sense _his_ heart and presence, if he only taught her _how._ Though he loved her, secrecy was one advantage Fen’Harel was loath to lose.

To the sneaking beast, the complicated lot boiled down to simply, _watch._ The white wolf smelled the stink of cooking deer, and he was far from appetized.

Her prayer complete, Una stood before her clansmen in the dappled sun.

“ _Lethallen._ If you mean to lead our people, I would have you know the truth. The mage who burned our woods, who led an army ‘gainst our clan, was Dalish.”

These men were not the sort to gasp. Jaws clenched, teeth creaked. Aaran shook his head, disgusted. Una pulled a small gray stone amulet from her hip, offering the thing to Thalis as she spoke, her voice colored with regret. “The woman was of Clan Fin’as, and she was using this.”

Tear-rimmed olive eyes sank to his palm with a distant whisper. _“Deshanna.”_

Una gave a single nod, quite solemn. “Deshanna’s keystone is the means by which The Fall occurred. We may never know _how_ the Fin’as mage came to have it. She was working with Corypheus; Mythal only knows. Regardless, wicked as they are, I am sure the elf was not herself. We must not blame Fin’as for this, as we mustn’t blame ourselves.”

Her gentle hand curled ‘round Thalis’ calloused fingers, guiding them to shut around the keystone as she stared crying up into her student’s eyes. “I meant for these to _unify_ our people. Now, this blighted thing is but an artifact of bloody Dalish history. _Da’len,_ I entrust the thing to you. Decide amongst yourselves what you would do with it.”

She touched his unresponsive cheek then, smiling with a private whispered moniker.   _“Thal, ma da’vhenan. I am so **proud** of you.”_

**“ _You’re LYING!”_**

Aaran screamed at her, abrupt and harsh, a bark of passionate denial sheathed in blame. His fists were clenched, hot tears raced in rivers down his once-Dalish face. His sanity began foundering the moment Una pulled the unassuming trinket from her pouch.

The Keeper and The Lady stopped to look at him. Thalis held the keystone limp in sweating fingers, his ever-numb mind _doubly_ numb with nauseating truth. Such shocking news, in such few sentences. Una never _had_ been one to soften blows.

 **_Deshanna’s_ ** _keystone… **This is Clan Lavellan’s mistake.**_

As this fixed note rattled in his hollow brain, Thalis stood and watched them both.

Una pulled Aaran into a hug, and he _allowed_ it. She whispered something sorrowful about how hard the times had been for _all_ of them, and she told him she was sorry. Only _then_ did Aaran push his one-time wife away.

Thalis watched the Grand First sinking to his knees, heard him _screaming,_ and he wouldn’t _stop._ Aaran dragged his fingernails down cheeks where Andruil once lived, leaving jagged trails of broken skin. He pounded on the ground before him, screaming threats and questions at Elgar’nan himself. His entire body shuddered helplessly with rage and grief as the unwitting traitor writhed in char that once was all he stood for.

Lady Lavellan, for all her grace and seeking truth, woefully misunderstood. So moved was she by Aaran’s mourning, she reached again to comfort him. He snarled against the ground like a wounded animal.

**_“Leave me.”_ **

Verdant eyes so soft with sympathy, even as her hand of powdered black withdrew. She lingered over Aaran for a moment before stepping back, regarding Thalis once again. His eyes, she saw, were lost in thoughts she’d never have him think. Her hand resumed its purchase on his face.

“Listen to me, Thal. This is _no one’s_ fault. Corypheus targeted us because I am Dalish. It is a simple, evil fact. Do not blame Your People, _da’vhenan_.”

He said nothing in response, just idly fingered at the stone. Una hugged him tight. He allowed the gesture, but he did not respond. He heard Aaran’s lamentations, but he did not listen.

“Thalis. There is…something else, _da’len.”_

He whispered, hollow, distant. Aaran was far too gone to overhear. Even as he answered, Thalis moved to walk away. “ _Hahren,_ I already know. I know he brings the meals, I know he built this place. I have seen him walking with my sister.”

Una’s shocked expression was lost on her numb pupil, her feet glued to the ground. The wolf watching from the shade was unaffected, losing interest.

“Thalis… _how?”_

Not one for showmanship, Thalis built no drama. He did not look over his shoulder, and his footfalls did not cease. His voice exchanged its hollow emptiness for prim and straight decorum.

“I am the Keepers’ Keeper, Lady Lavellan. It is my place to know. Thank you for these truths, such as they are. If you will, find the Emissary to the Dalish. Clan Fin’as insisted just this afternoon; they will only speak to you.”

Calculating, sharp. Her eyes squinted in subtle disbelief. “Clan _Fin’as?_ Then the rescue missions are complete?”

“Yes, Lady Lavellan. The elves you’ll see at dinner are the only Dalish left.”

Thalis left to Keep his Keepers, Fen’Harel rushed off to _some_ task he was meant to do; his Elvhen mind would have it soon enough. Fen’Namas lingered in the _Arla’Numinan_ longer than she should have, wishing she could bring peace to the tortured man who denied her heart the same for so much of her youth.


	22. The Dread Wolf's Daughter Practiced

She was unaware of absent breakfast, for today she had no stomach. Her body was reduced to fingers, shoulders, feet and eyes. Her mind knew only focus.

The rest – her guts, her heart, her face, her lungs, her ears, her mouth – she left _that_ lot hanging o’er the hearth of yesterday, to stay behind and mull the countless shake-ups in her world.

In time, she would take them up again.

Yesterday's first happenings were by far the sweetest. A voyeur's thrill, Cole’s steamy kiss, unusually bold and deep with guiltless need, as he clutched her hair and leaned half-naked out his window. Her eager heart sang triumph at her flinching suitor’s progress, just to falter on the harmony when he disappeared mid-breakfast without kissing her goodbye. After the charming smile she'd watched him share with Marli, she found this abrupt departure more than painful.

Solas sat and watched unflinching as his willful daughter wept and writhed upon the floor that day. She lashed the patient man with screaming hate, her wounded heart enshrouded with denial of her malcontent’s true cause.

_"I have denied you pity, Veyla. I have never once denied you love, and never will.”_

She’d had this lesson at his hand a dozen times before, but only yesterday did Veyla come to understand.

_Pity doesn’t **fix** me. Pity makes me weaker._

This epiphany came shortly after noontime as she snuggled safely in her father’s warm embrace, basking like a heavy-bellied lizard in his glowing pride. An essential lesson, mastered not an hour too soon. From that moment on, remorseless trials came sinking ‘gainst young Veyla’s thin-skinned shoulders with every tick of day's declining sun.

Her first trial was not a new one, though it pricked a soft spot in her heart; admission that her absent mother-idol still remained at large. She guarded ‘gainst her hunger then for pity, as she’d ached since long before The Fall for Una’s loving favor.

_She is busy, but she loves me. Una will come back._

Veyla’s second trial was harder, sharper, gnawing the foundations of her life’s assumptions like a beaver in the spring: Lies from the very mouth she’d grown to trust with _everything._

_"I take my dinners late, da’len. Stop playing with your food.”_

_"You don’t come to breakfast, either. You don’t come out at all.”_

_"Late as I take my dinners, I take breakfast even later. I see you every day, da’halla. What is your concern? Can you not feed yourself?”_

_"Papae… **Why are you so scared of everyone?”** _

One beseeching, loving plea for honesty. As she watched his pupils flash to pinpricks, Veyla _knew_ the truth. It was spread in rumors rippling through their meals and baths. Rumors of the silent flat-ear guarding Una’s side at the Arlathvhen, rumors of an evil god.

All of this, for _weeks,_ she’d vehemently denied.  _It can’t be true. Solas would have told me. Solas tells me **everything.**_

Father looked away a beat too late, setting down his fork. Polished silver _tinked_ ‘gainst dainty china with such cold finality, Veyla knew he was affected – Solas _never_ left his cake half-eaten. Even as he dabbed Madrie’s hand-embroidered satin napkin at the corner of his mouth and cleared his throat to speak, Veyla knew her father's tongue would give her only lies.

“You saw me taking private meals in Skyhold, Veyla. My absence is a simple matter of my preference for peaceful air.”

_Lies, Father. **All** this time. Why...? Una made me leave, told me you were dangerous, I don't-..._

Of the many conceivable reasons for such enduring dishonesty, she convinced herself of only one. Her conclusion would have terrified a man three times her size, but Veyla was not frightened.

She was  _furious._

Furious at Una for losing to this wicked man, for not telling her before it was too late. Furious at herself for falling prey to a monster's false affections. To think, not one  _hour_ ago, she cuddled in his lap – he could have had her soul, then, if he wanted.

He would  _never_  get it now.

She found her feet, her palm-heels set their dishes rattling on the wonky table as she leaned forward and squinted hateful fury at his face. When Veyla began to yell, the curly-headed _shemlen_ wiping down the marble counter shot a scowl across the bakery.

In thirty seconds, Madrie’s glowering service girl would be slinking out the back to save her hide.

“You’re _lying!_ Even _Una_ was afraid of you before! **_Why?! WHERE is she?!”_**

He flinched, he glared with scorn. He hissed authority through bared, clenched teeth. “Enough, _da’len._ What is  _wrong_ with you today? Sit  _ **DOWN**_."

She screamed with wordless rage, she snatched his gilded plate by its scalloped edge and struck him ‘cross the face. Porcelain struck bone so hard Solas jerked his head on reflex, sending Madrie’s finest china shattering to the checkered floor.

If Veyla only knew the rareness of the _feeling_ in his face. How precious she must be to him, the way Solas now gaped aghast, _wounded,_ **_speechless,_** in **_public._** Her voice shrieked so piercing high, Madrie’s window panes began to fret at breaking.

 **_“I’M NOT AFRAID OF YOU!_ ** _YOU ATE **HER** SOUL, YOU THINK YOU’LL GET **MINE?!** **I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF!”**_

Veyla snatched the tiny ironbark dagger from her sleeve and clenched the thing white-knuckled, trembling resolute. His chair sang screeching ‘gainst the floor as her one-time father swiftly found his feet. Still he gaped at her, his cake-smeared face grief-stricken and bewildered.

Marred fingers lunged across the table to snatch her trembling hand and hold it fast. She struggled in those moments to wrench herself free, to no avail – fierce as Veyla was, she would defeat no gods today. His free hand touched that tool he wouldn’t talk about, a round dead weight hanging from his belt in a crimson velvet sling. He bowed his head as she struggled in his grasp, his forlorn apology a scant whisper at the table.

_"Ir abelas. Ir abelas, ma da'vhenan."_

With a brilliant flash that stung her eyes, Veyla found herself tumbling face-first to the white washed floor of her treehouse. She didn’t need to raise her head to know she was alone.

Trial number three, her domineering First, hefted Veyla by the collar as she sat stewing before an untouched plate of dinner, choking back her tears of mourning. Thal was nowhere to be seen. Veyla’s older brother surely would have chastised Aaran for rough handling, the way he scruffed his gentle charge and marched her briskly to the woods. Rebellious as she was, her ire was doubly spent; her tired heart had no recourse but to woefully obey.

By the time their tasks were finished, obedience was the last thing on her mind.

Veyla mourned the timid beast as she washed away the gore, and she was **not** ashamed. She took no joy in father’s blossoms bursting from the ground as she bathed alone beneath the moon; she was far too busy fretting at the doe’s dried blood that matted in her manky hair, staining jagged nails and aching fingers.

A measly night before, Aaran’s harshness would have broken her. Instead, his cutting blows across her face and bloody tests of gumption in the dark served only to harden Veyla’s fierce resolve.

_You think I’m **weak,** old man? You’re **wrong.**_

Victory over Aaran bored a fixed point in her mind, a stillness, resolute and grim. So much chaos in her growing heart, circumstances far beyond control – lover, father, mother.

She _could_ control _herself,_ and she would _show_ him _._ If she must grit her teeth and test her mettle ‘gainst a skill that all her life eluded her to do it?

**So be it.**

So, all through the night and into day, while gods made love and hunters combed the woods for game to feed her hungry kin, while one Emissary persecuted serpents in a soggy bog and the other slept with his congested face buried ‘gainst a purring orange tabby, while her newfound rival groveled face-first in the soot of shame that once was home: The Dread Wolf’s daughter practiced.

The bow she used was Aaran’s spare, as Solas took his own away to press his books. She practiced ‘til her blistered fingers bled, ‘til her whole brain _ached_ with squinting at the target, blurry and elusive. Her slender arms were threatening to fall clean off and quit; she had no ears to hear them. 

Pain became her teacher. Her waxen string was gummed with sweat and grime and bleeding. Her elbows and her shoulders screamed, the skin inside her arm was raw and bruised from misfired brushing whipping speed. Her crooked-loosed mistakes would sting her nose, they’d sting her cheek, they’d sting her chin. Every muscle in her body hurt, even as the ground she stood for hours sank beneath determined feet that held their stance without a break.

Though she stood for hours on end, emptying her quiver with mistakes to walk the woods and fill it up again, the forest beasts that watched her failure joked no longer on the state of elves these days. The tenacious elf forgot her hunger, just as she forgot the endless secret heartaches that consumed her all day yesterday.

She had no heart to recognize Cole's missing nightly visit - again, that part of her was neatly hanging o'er the hearth of yesterday, as were her ears, as were the other parts she didn't need.

And again, in time, she would _surely_ take them up again.

But not today. When the wolf that was her father stopped in stretching shadows to observe with muffled feeling and more whimpering racket than a cub could make, Veyla truly did not hear him.


	23. Press, Pull, Run°

No, the Dread Wolf’s daughter didn’t think about a _thing_ while she was practicing.

If she _did_ have room to think, she would be wondering how Solas finally bested Una, if her idol suffered when she died, how she’d break the news to Cole – they’d talked at length, the two of them, about how Una was nowhere to be found. They talked about all _sorts_ of things, as best friends do and should.

Speaking of, if Veyla _had_ a mind it would be _doubly_ cross with Cole, the way he rushed away to Kirkwall unannounced while she ate breakfast yesterday.

She’d wolfed the stuff, she _always_ did, eager for their customary private kiss goodbye, _especially_ after how he’d kissed her just an hour before. She walked three times around that massive tree, she checked his unlocked home to no avail. She even questioned pudgy little Pola; _that_ fruitless bribe cost Veyla her remaining honeyed half-a-biscuit.

_How? **How** could you leave me in this **stupid** place alone without saying goodbye to me?_

To her, Cole’s presence in the drab white expanse of _Namadahlan_ was a fiercely coveted delight. So passionately did he champion the liberation of the City Elves, he _never_ took a break. Not _one_ lousy day to rest and play. Though most admired his dedication, Veyla was less proud than jealous of his time.

Nonetheless, her ever-busy suitor made great efforts to assure her of his love.

Every time he left on business – that is, every day he woke at home – the star-crossed pair would part in private. She’d stand transfixed and watch him pull his gloves off by the tips of seams, neatly folding them in half to tuck them in snug pockets at his hips.

_Tidy. Cole is always tidy._

He would cup her face in spindly nail-bit fingers, his reverent touch like ice against her flushing skin. He’d smile and whisper secret love forbidden by her kin as he cordially bowed to meet expectant lips. Never once, in all this time, had Veyla moved to kiss him first.

The first few times Cole pulled his Pretty girl aside to wish her sweet farewell, Veyla coyly clutched the open edges of his supple lambskin jacket. The Dread Wolf’s cunning daughter grew quite bold with time, until she came to curl her nimble fingers through the loops that held his belt, the ones that flanked his buckle. Without fail, this gesture made him blush and gave her fluttering belly quite a thrill.

Though his goodbye kisses were unrushed and full of longing, in this his gentle lips were _always_ sealed and chaste. Try as she might to nibble and entice, her unyielding beau would only chuckle airy through his nose and run his loving thumb along her cheek beside their osculating lips. Cologne would flood her hungry heart with wants as her verboten _shemlen_ suitor whispered promises against her scheming, grinning mouth. The Emissary _always_ pledged to steal away from pressing duties ere his Pretty fell asleep.

Her courting ghost would show quite late some nights, but he would _always_ show, _always_ with a trinket from his day, and always in the snuggly-soft pajamas they both loved. She knew he owned three sets, all the same, hand-combed Orlesian cotton; Cole loved to shop for clothes. She also knew, as no one else did, _just_ how much Cole loathed his Emissary uniform.

“It’s something – it’s the white, I think. It makes people’s eyes go funny.”

She’d lay awake and fully dressed in her cozy _shemlen_ bed, listening for the quiet _crack_ of a well-aimed pebble on the wooden wall behind her head. The wholesome man of honor would not trespass in her home, though his little vixen nearly _begged_ him to. Instead, the pair kept nightly covert company on the same low-hanging branch above the stream, of which the towering trees could boast only a few.

The whispering friends would sit there side-by-side, legs dangling o’er the muttering water as they exchanged the contents of their day. Cole always wanted Veyla to go first, and he would not be satisfied until she’d shared sufficient detail to flesh out every hour, no matter how mundane. Blue eyes would watch her face through flaxen bangs, intense with interest in her studies, in her baths, in the things the friendly group of boys across the stream would say to her, in the texture of the salty jerky she chewed all afternoon.

When the calling of Sylaise would set her bleeding, she’d simply say she had a tummy ache that day. Cole would croon with sympathy and cup his chilly fingers knowingly low across her belly. He’d shift to lean his back against the trunk with her between his legs, she’d rest her head against his chest to hear him breathing, taking comfort in his soothing touch.

Vexingly, he never let her aching lower back scoot against him all the way, and these comforts were the closest to her waistband his cold fingers ever came.

 _Oh,_ the stories Cole would tell her. She’d hang rapt on every word as he painted rambling pictures of his travels. He would gesture with his hands as he shared his wonder at the world and its inhabitants. His quiet voice became so animated, _passionate_.

His language would slip cryptic on some topics. His eyes would cast themselves far-off after some elusive thing as straight reason fell away to feeling, soft-spoken recitations near intangible. She never interrupted him to search for clarity. Though it used to make her crazy, Veyla found she _dearly_ missed the way Cole spoke when they first met. With time, her mastery of his enigmatic meanings knew no equal.

Cole would prattle endlessly to her on anything, from the grumpy-looking bears carved on every door of Amaranthine to the way the maids in Castle Denerim kept arguing over who would refresh his linens, as if his bed sheets needed changing every morning.

They surely thought he wet the bed. He had, once, he sheepishly confessed to his most cherished friend, before his newly living body learned to wake him up. Did they think he smelled like piss? Were they all embarrassed for him? Veyla assured him that he didn’t stink, but between the two of them they could not find the sense of it.

Their sessions were not all full up with ponderings and stories of the world. Though it didn’t happen often, more than once Cole moved to steal a kiss, _always_ in the middle of her speaking. Most times they’d just giggle ‘gainst each other’s grinning mouths, perhaps she’d catch a nibble at his elusive lip before he pulled away and turned his blushing head, kicking his dangling feet more wildly than before.

One time, weeks ago, she caught him. She grabbed his sneaking face and threw herself against his body like a well-oiled bear trap, straddling the lap he guarded from her rump so dearly. He balked, he melted from her clutching grasp like liquid mercury and left her kissing air. When Cole’s feet hit the grassy bank beneath the tree trunk, he snatched the Emissary stone from his pocket and he disappeared. (He kept his tattered yellow feather wrapped around that stone, she knew. “So I won’t lose it,” he would always say.)

She sat there scoffing, fuming, hurt. Too much time elapsed before Cole flashed back into being with his head bowed ‘neath her feet, red-faced and remorseful.

_“I’m **sorry,** Pretty. You’re **wonderful.** I’m **scared** of it, I’m scared of **me.”**_

She found his penance less than satisfactory.

Minutes later, an outspoken, fed- ** _up_** Veyla stood knee-deep in the wide, white-pebbled river where her people took their baths, poised to throw his Emissary stone into the deep. That night she learned _just_ how loud and angry Cole could get when someone, _anyone,_ tried to rob him of his power to help.

The ensuing screaming match woke the outskirts of the City Elves across the creek. No one else who knew him would believe it. Outraged as he was, he never touched her.

In time, they spent their rage and came together, as they always did after a spat. As they held each other tight and cried upon the rocky shore, both dripping wet below the waist, she hoarsely promised she would never steal his Emissary stone again. In return, he promised he would never raise his voice or curse at her, no matter how angry she made him.

As for his tired old excuse of fear: though Cole flat-out _refused_ discussion on the nature of his seemingly irrational concerns, he swore to her that he _did_ want to fix it, that he was trying _every_ day, that he thought, just **_maybe,_** he was making progress.

But, he wouldn’t lie – he wasn’t sure. He begged her for more time. He loved her, he _loved_ her, and she was his dearest friend.

Grumbling Veyla acquiesced with not a little moping, and the pair agreed to take a break from kissing, aside from their traditional goodbyes. Goodbye kisses, they agreed, were indispensable and precious.

The break lasted for weeks. Tortured Veyla did not know it, but Cole matched her pining ache for ache.

Cole acquainted Veyla with the customs of her City cousins. She knew more about their ways than most, and she’d journeyed ‘cross the shallow border several times to play at kickball with the boys. One night quite recently, as they gazed across the stream together, sitting hip to hip with fingers meshed and resting just above her knee, Cole’s re-hashing explanation of the _vhenadal_ moved Veyla’s Dalish heart.

“Imagine,” Veyla whispered mournful with her cheek against his shoulder, “Having only _one_ tree, _one_ Hahren, and no Keeper. They must be so… ** _sad_.** I wish that stupid _shemlen_ King would let you rescue **all** of them.”

He gave her hand a squeeze and let it go – they were touching more than talking that night, and she _loved_ it. More oft than not, his hands were far too busy telling stories or fussing at the piped hems of his sleeves, _especially_ since the blasted kiss embargo.

His arm slid around her middle as the orchestrated swinging of their feet above the stream began to slow.

“Pretty, they aren’t sad – You met them! They’re happy, most of them, even though they’re poor and scared. Besides…” His lips brushed her ear. _“It’s not like I **count** them. I just bring everyone who wants to come, after the field clerks leave.”_

She gasped and giggled with half-playful scandal, giving Cole a rough shove that may have sent a man less versant in the art of movement tumbling to the stream below. He caught her hands when she made to shove at him again and they turned to face each other, straddling the branch with bumping knees.

 _“Stupid,_ you can’t **_do_** that! You’re going to get in trouble! You’ll go to _jail_ or something!”

 ** _“Hey.”_** Cole’s flirtatious grin, so dashing and so rarely used – it never ceased to catch her breath off-guard and make her blush. His brows hitched over slotted, staring eyes. She never mentioned it because she thought it might disturb him, but Cole’s eyes glowed like sunlit crystal in the dark. It was the spirit in him, she just _knew_ it. Maybe _that_ was what her brother saw the night he called Cole’s bluff.

Cole shook his head as they play-glared at one another, clicking teasing _tsk, tsk, tsk_ behind his teeth. Still, he held her shoving hands against his chest.

“Pretty girl. You think I’m scared to break the rules?”

Though she wore gauze-padded wrappings when she bled, Veyla hated smallclothes otherwise, as did most Dalish elves. Every time she spoke with Cole, his airy voice would slick the stitches ‘twixt her legs. Now, as he purred his flirty question with his fingers tracing circles in her palms, a hundred fantasies soaked her breeches through. The seam rubbed as she shifted for comfort ‘gainst the cruel, unyielding tree limb.

His question made her grin and giggle. She stuck her nose up high and turned her head away to play at hard to get, her heart racing with the thrill of passive hunting. Oh, how _starved_ she was for flirting.

She’d failed at coaxing unhinged romance out of Cole since the night he pinned her down in Belle Marché, that hot-and-heavy hour before The Fall. In spite of every blushing, bumbling effort Veyla thought to make, the relentless huntress hadn’t seen him _near_ frenzied since. Cole was _always_ in control, or else he left.

But she remembered. The lustful way he moaned into her throat when she suckled at his tongue, _just_ twice, the _longing_ in his eyes when he forced himself to break away. The same desires that kept her up all night were there, just beneath the frightened surface of her gentleman. Chaste and timid as he was, Veyla would _not_ give up.

Sadly, excited as she was to receive his attention now, her aptitude for flirting back ranged from poor to terrible.

“I didn’t call you _scared,_ I called you _stupid._ You _should_ be scared!”

She heard Cole begin to doubt himself. His haughty flirting edge receded into curiosity, innocent and most sincere. “Oh? I should?”

_Ugh! Jerk! That wasn’t what I meant…_

She chocked her quarry up to lost, almost huffing as her forehead fell against his chest. “Uh-huh. You should.”

But wait. Cole inclined his head towards the crook between her neck and shoulder, and his fingers on her palms began to hesitate. His urgent breath against her skin _,_ the _scent_ of him, the way his heart was racing ‘neath her hands; in those fleeting moments, anticipation drove her _mad._

He muttered, clearly nervous.

“Oh. I think…”

Another breath, he cleared his throat. His chin upon her shoulder pushed her further from him, forcing her to sit up straight and tall. Still, his face was nuzzling her neck. She heard him swallow hard and smack his lips. He spoke again, his buried whisper barely audible o’er the blood that hammered in her ears.

_“I think I like stupid better.”_

And then, for the first time, Cole kissed Veyla somewhere other than her lips. From that night on, _everything_ was different.

He pressed his open mouth against the corner of her neck, so ticklish she had to fight to keep her shoulder from jerking up into his cheek. His lips were soft and smooth. He’d learned the care of them in his pursuits of outward aspect bordering on vanity; they were _never_ cracked and scratchy anymore. His tongue was hot and sloppy as he lapped her salty skin, coaxing shivering tremors of coy tittering from her throat. At once, she began to take her breaths in little gasps.

When Veyla felt his pearly grazing teeth, her entire body shuddered. She giggled breathless with excitement, her gasping mouth fell open in a wide-mouthed grin, her eyes slid closed. _Oh,_ he _sucked,_ he _groaned_ against her skin, and it was _wonderful._

Any other man may be put off by the strange young woman’s incessant, giddy giggling through the lot of it – Cole did not seem to mind at first.

So _far_. The way they sat now, knee-to-knee, her short legs leaving mismatched feet to bump his shins, kept their bodies _much_ too far apart. Even as he moaned and suckled her, Cole’s quaking hands kept hers flat against his fluttering chest, effectively restraining both of them at once. No yanking, no pressing. He kept his body eerily still, save his shaking hands and working mouth.

Blushing Cole would not permit his giggling friend to kiss him back. He was so much taller, it was a simple matter of angling his feinting shoulder when she moved to try. He left Veyla with no recourse but to huff, wishing she could love him in return.

Cole was in no hurry, much to her delight. He never stopped to breathe – his nose did all the work, blowing gooseflesh zephyrs at her skin. Her enjoyment never reached a peak or tapered off. The heat between her legs grew more intense with every passing minute as Cole drew his slithering tongue back and forth upon the tender skin between his teeth. He would set his teeth behind his lips to suck some more, he would draw them out to nibble her again. Through all of this, he reverently rocked his head from side to side.

Eventually she ground her starving elfhood ‘gainst the bruising tree between her legs, _just_ a little. The rubbing seam against her swollen bud paid Veyla pleasure, but she was far too shy to carry on alone.

Even back in Belle Marché, Cole kept their middles distant with his knees against her hips. In spite of everything, she wondered, in the midst of burning urges unfulfilled, if Cole _really_ understood how men and women worked. He _told_ her he knew plenty, but he wouldn’t give his knowledge words. Perhaps misunderstanding was the fountain of his fears?

Hmm. She _did_ wonder, but he’d only balk if asked.

If she knew half of what he’d seen and read and dreamed of, Veyla _wouldn’t_ wonder.

When she began her secret squirming, their already touching knees thudded together. His trembling fingers tightened on her hands and a helpless-sounding whimper echoed in his chest. He sucked her harder and she felt _his_ legs twitch, _just_ a little.

She felt him panic, then, after his legs jerked. When his lips broke their air-tight seal against her with a sucking _smooch_ , she was so lightheaded from her giggly gasping breaths her olive eyes saw blotchy lights skittering like waterbugs. Her skin was slick with his affections, and the cold air pricked her swollen, blooming bruise.

His hands upon her wrists were rigid with his nerves, his bracing knees the same. Whispered words rushed tumbling, _begging_ ‘gainst her neck in cryptic code she understood _so_ well.

 _Most_ of the time. She was far too starry-eyed to catch his meaning now.

_“I’ve heard it, not like that. Laughter rustling, dead-leaf bramble finches I can hear but never see. Happy-frightened-angry-ticklish-nervous? **Please.”**_

“Wh-…What? Cole, _don’t stop. Don’t stop.”_

She was still shivering with the rush of his biting, sucking kiss, so new, so _strong_ after weeks of total abstinence. She strove against the muscles in his neck to bury her face against his chest, to bring her legs together and burrow into him – he would not have it. Naught but his cheek against her shoulder held her straining body fast. The incapacitating power Cole exerted without effort only served to deepen Veyla’s whining need to snuggle in his arms.

He asked again. She heard him strain with concentration on syntax and clarity. Still, his voice and hands were quivering with nerves.

“Veyla. You keep laughing. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

A giggle preceded her answer. He wrung his brow until she spoke, pressing her ear down against his face.

“You **_aren’t,_** mmmn, I **_love_** it. _Let me do it back.”_

He pulled his face away to look at her, consternation quickly twisting into a delighted smile.

 _“Oh._ You like it…? You’re _laughing_ …because you **_like_** it. I’ve never – …” His sweaty hands released her wrists and cupped her blushing face, his eyes aglow with admiration. His fingertips were hot, for once.

“I **love** you, Veyla.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, taking advantage of her newly liberated hands. His touch lost Veyla’s face as she nimbly hopped up to her feet and stood between his legs, relieved to give her aching thighs and bum a rest from scratching bark. She squirmed and tugged to straighten her rough-hewn shorts, extracting that hiking seam that made her thighs clamp tight and gave her pleasures she was too embarrassed to enjoy. The cold air rushed her sticky body, and it quickly chilled the sopping fabric at her crotch – _yeck._ Talk about uncomfortable.

Her hips swayed with almost-innocence as she snatched a loose strand of his downy hair between her fingers for twisting, shining down at him with a pretty smile that they _both_ knew spelled trouble.

“I love you too! Sooo…y’gonna let me?”

Cole leaned back against the tree trunk to beam love up into Veyla’s impish face, bashful hands preoccupied with stretching the front of his powder blue nightshirt down between his thighs. He cleared his throat again – she thought it was cute, the way he cleared his throat and blushed beneath her challenging stare.

But then his eyes went sad and far. The smile that charmed a hundred souls a day turned upside-down and pencil-thin. She saw him glancing o’er the bruise he surely left upon her neck, the scratches on her inner thighs from squeezing ‘gainst the tree. He looked her in the face again, longing tinged with sorrow.

“I already hurt you. I _want_ to, Veyla, but I – I’m scared of what I’ll do to you.”

_Is **that** what you’re scared of, stupid? That’s **it?**_

For all his words, he didn’t stop her when she knelt and brought their foreheads together, curling her fingers in the collar of his nightshirt. When they locked eyes, his rigid shoulders seemed to soften. His fists continued clutching at the extra fabric of his shirt, knuckles scratching on the tree between his legs.

“It _doesn’t_ hurt, you’ll see. If _I’m_ not scared, you shouldn’t be. Besides. If you hurt me, Solas and my brother will take turns killing you!”

She grinned boldly at him, nodding stern to emphasize her point. His hopeful eyes conceded, and they brightened by a hefty measure. His voice was awed and overjoyed with sudden understanding, though she’d meant the threat in jest.

“…They **_would,_** wouldn’t they?!”

 _Oh,_ the way he stared straight through her to admire her soul, his private eyes indulgence all their own, even as he laughed at his own foolish oversight. She forgot her conquest as she shared his laughing joy, numb to the discomfort of her bony knees upon the tree.

Their laughter faded out in unison, soft eyes began to smolder. She’d never kissed him first before. When she pulled her forehead from his own and moved to close her eyes and kiss his mouth, his urgent whisper stopped her.

_“No - Wait.”_

Her eyes came back to lock with his, a lustrous gaze that never left her. His dangling right foot came to rest beside her bruising shins as his right hand left the space between them, and she felt him hike the leg of his pajamas. A quiet _snap,_ the unmistakable sound of a blade being unsheathed.

When he pressed the braided leather hilt into her palm, she gasped with disbelief and turned her face to see.

She could not _believe_ she never noticed that he carried this before, she’d never _seen_ it! And she’d _never_ touched his weapons, _any_ of them. She was enchanted by the plain yet savage-looking blade, because it belonged to _him,_ and _he_ was **dangerous.** She wondered how many men he’d killed with it. Rebellious little Veyla was so exhilarated by this unexpected treat, she could not contain her squeak of glee.

A dagger to her lover was a little sword to her. The hilt was awkward in her hand, too heavy and too thick. He guided her to curl her fingers best she could, he took her wrist and brought the blade to rest against his shoulder, angled towards his jugular – _she_ didn’t know that, but her blue-eyed assassin surely did.

_What the…?_

He fussed at her grip, repositioning her fingers and the angle of her wrist. He guided her once through the motions of his words, ghosting in the air beside his neck.

“If I hurt you: Press, pull, run. Like this Pretty, across, not towards your face. Hold on tight and use your shoulder, not your wrist. Okay? And if I say stop, I mean it.”

She stared at the glinting blade against his neck before her eyes came back to see his own. She was only dumbfounded for half a heartbeat. If _this_ was what it took to kiss him back, she’d take it.

Besides. She always knew that Cole was weird.

“Okay. I’ll stab you too.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to stab him would be plum _absurd._ “ _Noo,_ that’s no good. Just do it like I _told_ you. Silly girl.”

She snorted with a giggle at his mannerisms; the way his voice purred when he whispered _silly girl_ made her exhausted tummy muscles quiver, as they had been all night long.

Before she finished laughing, his free hand left her wrist to snatch behind her head and yank her mouth against his own. With that, she lost her opportunity to kiss her ghosting _shemlen_ first. Her eyes darted closed as she rushed to kiss him back.

He sucked her giggling lips like candy ‘til they parted for his tongue. It felt like _lifetimes_ since they'd kissed with open mouths. He tasted different than before; Sweeter, cleaner. His kiss dwarfed her mouth so thoroughly, she began to wonder just _how_ far his tongue could reach. Cascading fantasies curled the fingers of her unarmed hand even tighter in his collar.

Her own tongue was far too short to reach as deep as she would like, but she found delight a’plenty in tensing to a point and tickling ‘long the washboard ripples of his picky palate. He seized and tittered down her throat. When Cole returned the gesture, she giggled twice as loud and suckled at his probing tongue to make him _groan,_ and he didn’t pull away. His right hand _did_ forsake its business cradling her head, darting back to shield between his legs.

When she parted from his mouth with a slurping smack to trail giggling kisses ‘cross his chiseled jaw and down his neck, Cole began to pant with every fiber of his body. His chest heaved as his head fell back against the tree.

She stopped to kiss the apple of his throat in passing; she had always wondered at the thing. He swallowed hard beneath her, and she thrilled to feel it move.

When Veyla pulled his shirt aside and bowed her head to suck his milky skin, Cole shivered every bit as hard as she had. She found that giving could be _quite_ intoxicating. The way his hips moved forward slow and strained when her teeth began to sink, the way his breaths went rasping shallow. She _ached_ to reach beneath his shirt, beneath his _pants._ She could do naught but hold his collar and his knife, or else she knew she’d lose him. For weeks, for months, forever.

 _Gods,_ the forest-dwelling elf was tired of sitting, kneeling on this _stupid_ tree. Her begging knees did not have long to wait. After just a few minutes of returning the favor, Cole’s hands forgot their fretting and began to press her hips. Every time he touched her, she was reminded of their difference in size; his long fingers worried o’er the waistband of her shorts, spanning clear across her back.

As his ragged breathing filled her ears, her heart began to race with wondering _just_ how far he meant to go. The same mind that roved beneath his clothes just beats before went white with anxious nerves – she never _dreamed_ he’d work up nerve so _fast_. She’d ached for him _forever,_ she would touch herself and suck her fingers with her eyes shut tight, pretending she was kissing him. She would break into his house to steal his hat and _smell_ it. This was what she _wanted._

Before Veyla’s mind decided, his roving fingers turned to fists and clenched the fabric of her jerkin.

_“Stop.”_

She pulled her mouth away abruptly, staring at the mouth-sized blue and purple bruise she left behind. Later, when she stripped for bed, she’d see _just_ how much bigger Cole’s mouth was than hers.


	24. A Tiny Castle in the Desert

It is not an easy thing, feeding o’er a thousand people in a forest with no kitchen. Though a god _could,_ if he or she desired, pull lifeless trees of blanching wood and crystal up from naught but scorching earth, concocting stew and biscuits from the ether was another matter.

Somewhere in the vast expanse of the Brecilian Forest, the Inquisitor-in-name was trudging sludge and catching up with Dorian on topics most delightful and unsavory.

_“So - how **do** you walk, exactly?”_

_“Honestly? When no one’s looking? Like a dwarf with saddle strain.”_

_“Fasta **vass!** Don’t lie to me. He fucks like a self-righteous prig. ‘OooOOooh, the Elvhen did this **first,** vhenan!’”_

_“You’d be surprised.”_

**_“Eugh._ ** _I **hate** that I believe you.”_

There was no talk of cocks in Skyhold’s scullery today.

In any kitchen, Chef is King. Tarasyl'an Te'las was no exception. Though the borrowed stronghold of the Inquisition was a ghost town with Corypheus defeated, padded coffers kept Chef’s kitchen fully staffed and stocked. The man conducted from ground zero with his elbows in his work, orchestrating people, heat, and untold tons of flour into symphonies of gustatory righteousness.

His fare was no more showy than the pots and pans that hung in their methodic madness from the racks above his head, dull and clean with years of scrubbing. Chef’s cuisine was universal, timeless, classic. He took great pride in this.

The fires that burned for breakfast burned again ‘fore dinner time, but not today; no belching flames spewed forth to make him sweat with slaving supper. Though the room was cool, Chef’s red-faced rancor did not know the difference. It had been a while, glinting ladles muttered ‘mongst themselves suspended in the air, since Chef came so unhinged. Even his beloved mousers sidled mildly to the barn, so put off were they by his demeanor. (He was unaware, but Chef had cheese and Cole to thank for them.)

He was not a _**bad** _ man, though few would say he was a good one; he was human, through and through. Chef was not a hefty man, nor was he thin. His face was flat and gray with stubble, and the balding – _balded_ patch atop his head glowed fire-poker hot to match the rest of him. Leithara was the rock of ages in his current of dissent.

 _“Damn_ the money, _damn_ orders! I won’t waste another grain of salt!”

The matron would have used his given name, if she knew it. No one did. “It is not our place, Chef, to assume our service is dismissed. Master Solas may very well return to feed the refugees this evening.”

“Oh, great, _well._ Soup, then?”

“I do not assume to tell you what to cook, only that you must.”

His last hinge creaked, it snapped, it clattered to the floor with all the rest. **_“If that high-and-mighty flat-eared son-of-a-bitch wants soup, let him go boil his ears! Boil yours, woman! I’ve thrown out eggs enough to feed a village! It’s a sin against the Maker!”_**

Not her voice then, but a man’s. It echoed through the open doorway from the stairs, **_his_** stairs. His distinguished tone and straight-backed stepping into view set Fen’Harel’s exalted sarcasm apart from that of baser souls.

“A bold idea, and practical. Sadly, I fear my lodgers would find _soupe d'oreille plat_ most unpalatable. I house only one Orlesian, and he does not partake of flesh. Ah! Your cats, perhaps?”

One would expect Chef to stutter speechless, caught red-tongued in his slander. As Leithara nodded with respects that went unanswered, Chef wielded a wagging ladle in the other man’s direction.

“You listen, _elf._ You can’t just – “

Interruption, swift and absolute. “You are paid to cook, not speak. I am in _no_ mood to indulge your weeping over broken eggs. What meat have you?”

Solas eyed a heap of burlap sacks beside the door as he awaited Chef’s response. He plucked the woven stays of one to check its contents - oats. Supple casting sent the lot a’flashing home. He likewise requisitioned Chef’s unsuspecting pots – they rang with tinny scandal when they found themselves upturned on Mercy’s Table.

Chef’s answer climbed the peak of galled. “Chickens came this morning, caged up in the barn. But you can’t just take my -   ** _Now wait just a - !”_**

“It seems you fail to recognize whose kitchen you are standing in – Your boots upon the floor alone are yours. See to breakfast. _Dareth shiral,_  Leithara.”

“Master Solas, a pleasure as always. My best wishes to our Lady.”

A distracted nod as Solas gained the stairs, barefoot stepping silent and serene. While his mouth went through the necessaries, touching base with Josephine regarding the Inquisitor’s last-minute invitations – _yes,_ **every** Ferelden Lord and Lady, _no,_ she is not kidding – his mind kept his tired company.

As he tread through the Great Hall of Tarasyl'an Te'las, Fen'Harel considered his Lady’s strange new gift to traverse the furthest corners of the Fade.

Her list of lacking lessons sagged with its own weight. Fen’Namas must learn to recognize her mate’s involuntary presence in her heart, for sake of godly skill. She must come to understand the risky feat of transmutation, another uninvited gift he’d passed her way with shoving blood – he was not so sure that Una _realized_ this talent, now innate. She must learn to use the orb, _their_ orb, a power that once was his and only his.

As if all that were not enough, Una now must come to master this unprecedented Fadefolding lest she dream herself to death. He could search the Fade for answers, or he could save his lover from her rampant new ability. Even Fen’Harel could not do both.

It sickened him, commanding his reluctant mate to drink _venuth,_ that sleep-depriving draught she never bothered burning. (She _had_ promised, he remembered, but he was not bitter. The Trickster God was not the type to point at broken promises.)

Three days, Solas assured her. _Three days,_ Solas assured _himself_ as he walked ‘cross frozen mud that was his own to reach the clucking, hay-strewn barn. For three days, he would sleep and scour the Fade for revelation while his lover stayed awake. Nausea would come, and blurry eyes – her body would recover quickly. It would be _nothing_ like the weeks she spent abusing in the past.

As he sent wicker cages full of squawking poultry to the slaughter, his mind took a turn to worry at his little halla calf. The bone beneath his eye still ached from her assault, as did the tender corner of his heart where fathers keep their daughters. Though Solas healed his outer aspect, he left the smarting out of penance.

Una laughed and shook her head when Solas told her simply, “Ah, lest I neglect to mention – Veyla is convinced the Dread Wolf ate your soul, _vhenan._ The child is…cross.”

Tonight, Una pledged to his well-guarded relief, she’d find the girl and set her straight before they came to dinner. The sun was hanging low – surely, she was back from fetching Clan Fin’as. Perhaps by now she’d talked to Veyla, convinced the stubborn child to give that borrowed bow a rest and **_eat._**

_Mythal, avert your eyes. The Dread Wolf spends more time a’fussing at his women than he does in planning righteous war._

Oh, but righteous thoughts _were_ there, and they held equal measure with the rest. While Una battled tooth and nail to see her people safely home and City Elves set free from fateful poverty, The Dread Wolf’s piercing eyes were facing north.

 _Namadahlan_ was elfkit’s play, unsustainable and slap-dash in the wake of crippling war. It could not compare to _Arlathan,_ just as poverty and slavery were _not_ the same.

Fen’Namas knew not a particle of this. Fen’Harel had no plans to share intendments soon, though Fen’Namas _did_ mention liberating the elves of Tevinter once in passing.

Likewise, Fen’Harel did not intend to mention why the _Banaluth_ was always whispering in her mind, compelling Fen’Namas to ply her storm-eyed mate with supplications for a tiny castle in the desert.

He simply told her he preferred the snow – Well. That much was true.


	25. Liquid Velvet•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just popping my head in to say, "Hey! You're still _reading_ this? You're crazy, and I love you! Thank you!  <3 <3 <3"
> 
> Oh - and this is, ah, this is bondage. 
> 
> But it's friendly.  
> \---------

As the pair popped into being under Mercy’s greatest tree, the Necromancer brushed his hands together with a buoyant sigh. There was no one else around – one missing breakfast broke them all of gathering for supper, though they'd done it every night for months.

The man of distinguished tastes eyed the noisy chickens with disdain.

 “Ah, I see Elfland opened up a petting zoo. _Charming.”_

When Una made no answer, he turned to watch her storm away, carving a warpath through the trees towards _something._

Eyes narrowed as he wondered at her confidential fury. She’d been livid ever since she waded to the Emissary’s side through shin-high peat, returning from her private conference with the dagger-toothed old elf. Even on the rare occasions when he’d taken to the field with her in war, he’d never seen the woman so… _incensed._

**_“Home. Now.”_ **

And here they were, and there she raging went. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered at his friend’s muck-spattered back. “Sullen as you are, my dear, I’m _convinced_ that elf pissed down your neck!”

“ _Hahren_ Fin’as did not wish to join us.”

Dorian jumped, he cursed, he turned to glare at Thalis. When Dorian spun ‘round to yell at Una, somehow the Keepers’ Keeper snuck to squat and ponder at the chickens.

Plump and red with eyes like murder, making quite a racket. Thalis had never _seen_ a chicken, though he’d known the taste from Mercy’s Table. Like all domestic meat, he found it bland. With his lover shooting daggers at his back, Thalis straightened up and muttered simply, “Huh.”

 _“Shame_ on you, in all your slinking youth. If _one_ more elf sneaks up on me today, my old heart will stop forever.”

No smile as Thalis turned to look him over. His eyes seemed, to all the world, unfeeling. In truth, Thalis believed this as much anyone.

Only Dorian knew better.

“You are not so old, and I did not sneak. I was simply curious. The Dalish do not believe in cages; My People will be most unsettled.”

“Set them free, then, and let your people hunt them through the woods like the stick-wielding savages they are. Good exercise. Fat Dalish - _chuh."_

Narrowed eyes, his voice wholly unplayful. “Careful.”

 _“Really?_ No jokes, now? Are _all_ elves grouchy fussbuckets when the moon goes crescent?”

“Moon phase is not the issue, Dorian. This day has been a trial for all of us.”

“Well. **I** need a bath and dinner, preferably **not** something I have to pluck myself. Ever tasted quail?”

“Yes.”

The gap between them slid from wide to narrow. Though Dorian _did_ stink of putrid mud, that was not why straight-spined Thalis clenched his rigid jaw. The staffs upon their backs stepped up their glimmering as a mustached face leaned close to whisper. _“Come home with me tonight, amatus. We can order in.”_

Thalis escaped answering when clandestine lovers turned in unison, acknowledging the City Elf who called across the stream. Dorian glowered at the gray-haired woman. Thalis simply looked.

“’Scuse me! Sorry! Keeper, the chickens – are we meant to share them?”

“Have them all, Hahren. We’ve no need.”

“You sure?”

“You have no hunters, Elana, and your clan is going hungry. You cannot _afford_ to ask if I am sure.”

The word _clan_ made her eyes roll, as did all the rest of it. Elana drawled dry thanks to the abrasive young man as she left to fetch assistance with the schlepping of the birds. Dorian _tsk_ ed at his side as they watched the woman walk away.

“Snippy, even when you’re being gracious to a fault. The Dalish life has made a mess of you.”

A voice behind them, then. Dorian snarled with the unexpected shock and nearly threw his neck out whipping it around to exclaim profanely at the speaking man. He’d had _enough_ of sneaking _shit._

Thalis waited. When he did not recognize the voice, he had a feeling. When he heard the phrase _my friend,_ he **_knew._** He did not turn around.

“If he were gracious to a fault, my friend, Una’s pupil would allot some precious time towards training City Elves to hunt. Or compel his kin to share a portion of their kills, perhaps.”

Dorian’s greeting was good natured, if not a little vexed. “Ah, well! No more apostate hobo? She does you good – that outfit is a _vast_ improvement. I suppose the lack of shoes cannot be helped?”

“…Ahhh. I see.”

“…What’s that, now?”

“Your boots. The stench – I feared supper’s cheese was spoiled. Imagine my embarrassment, and subsequent relief.”

Dorian laughed alone, glad of the teasing.

“Joke while you can, Solas! Bitter as your woman is tonight, I would rather lick my stinking boots than trade feet with you.”

“Hm. Well met.”

Throughout their friendly banter, Thalis did not move or speak. His feet stayed glued to trampled, wilting poppies.

It was not fear that stilled him, nor was it awe. What it _was_ exactly, Thalis truly could not say. He knew so little of himself - his muted soul was _utterly_ unwilling to accept that he must stand here as the Keepers’ Keeper, wielding his tongue in conversation with a god on behalf of his entire race.

Deaf to his own resentment, Thalis simply stood and listened to the devil he was raised to fear, bandying with the clever _shemlen_ he was raised to hate. He got by, until Fen’Harel addressed him.

“The Dalish have not shared common canopy for untold generations, let alone a common leader. Tell me, Keeper Lavellan. Your rescue efforts now concluded, what vision have you for the future of your people?”

At this, Thalis turned around.

He was tall, and Fen’Harel was taller. Keen young eyes assessed the god’s sharp-angled face, complexion faintly freckled, countenance as indecipherable as his own reflection. As eye contact lingered, he watched the Dread Wolf’s gaze go softer by a scant measure. Thalis did not know it, but resemblance to his impish little sister garnered near-instant favor.

All of this in less than seconds. Thalis answered as they sized each other up. Dorian, so pleased to witness this exchange he lapsed in longing for a bath, stood back with arms akimbo to observe.

“I would ask after your intentions if I trusted you to speak the truth. Though Dorian insists you are My People’s benefactor, I will not share my mind with you.”

He chuckled then, the Dread Wolf did, and voiced an observation. Only Una could discern the pity in her lover’s voice; to Thalis, it sounded more like quiet judgment.

“You are very young.”

“These days most Dalish are. You think me unfit.”

Fen’Harel’s eyes went drifting over ink-black lines that no longer marked the Keeper’s face, as though he could still _see_ them. “On the contrary. I have watched, _da’len._ Though her vallaslin was never meant for you, you function quite competently under Mythal’s calling. Your… _forbearance…_ is unrivaled. However well you serve Mythal, your energies are thick with my sister’s purpose. I assume Deshanna denied your face the markings of Sylaise?”

Thalis regretted the moment of honesty; this was not the Dread Wolf’s business.

“I wanted Falon’Din.”

A face like drinking curdled milk, but only for an instant. “I see. To follow in your tutor’s footsteps.”

“…Yes.”

“A lovely gesture that would flatter any teacher. Una is quite fond of you, young elf, and rightly so.”

An awkward silence ‘twixt the two elves; awkward to their audience of one, at least. Dorian cleared his throat as Solas flicked his eyes to watch Elana and her group of teenaged helpers carting noisy hens. The Dread Wolf looked off to the right, then, as if he saw and heard something no one else detected.

“Dorian. The elf from Clan Fin’as. What exactly did he say?”

Dorian yawned, growing quite bored. “She spoke to him alone. Not that I could understand him anyway, with those slurring, _dreadful_ teeth.”

And then, as swiftly as he’d come, brisk footsteps whisked the Dread Wolf out of view.

\----

“Show me, _amatus_. Draw it for me.”

Murky olive eyes went shifting in his lover’s gilded mirror. Calloused hands reached out to take the proffered slender brush and oil-creamed kohl. Without a word, Grand Keeper Lavellan began to draw the lines of Mythal’s sun upon his face to satisfy the gaze that burned behind his shoulder.

The mages hadn’t told each other much about their pasts. For words, they had no need. Attraction flowed balletic, unspoken understanding and connection at a glance. The Veil surrounding Dorian sizzled with defiant will and unapologetic self. From the moment of their introductions, his defiant nature called to shuttered Thalis like a peal of music drifting in the wind, intoxicating, unobtainable.

Next to Una, Dorian’s abilities were the first he’d ever seen that matched his own. _Surpassed_ his own. Though Thalis found the Necromancy quite disturbing, he could resist the mystery of Dorian’s craft no more than the rest of him. Though the young elf was nothing if not guarded, a lifetime of loveless prejudice yielded to forbidden kissing in two petty months. They had not _had_ each other yet, but walls were crumbling week by week.

To love a _shem_ was blasphemous enough.Clan Lavellan’s traditions certainly did _not_ allow for men to court with men. Hypocrisy and surging guilt battled endlessly against the thrill of life’s first indulgent passion, the allure of an older man who looked fate in the face and said, “I’m afraid not, thank _you!”_

The inking brush had no need of reminding. No scars remained, and the Dalish had few mirrors aside from rippling rivers. It was not the _look_ of Mythal’s sign he held. He remembered every _inch_ of searing pain.

Thalis set the pigment down upon the vanity, and they stared together at his onyx tracings in the mirror. Dorian sent an admiring thumb along his slender elven jaw, Tevinter skin dark honey ‘gainst his own. Words were _always_ hushed and close when the two stole themselves away to be alone.

“Hmph. I see you don’t miss it.”

Thalis touched his prosthetic vallaslin. It smudged, he started, jerked his hand away to rub his thumb against his dirty finger. His words rang dead and hollow in the lavish room.

“I did not say that. I do.”

“Oh-ho? I think you _don’t_ , Grand Keeper. See there? You’re squinting, and your aura’s gone all pithy. Just as well. That symbol belongs on a _shield_ somewhere, not your gorgeous face. I can't believe they even mark your _eyelids,_ Thalis. It's _barbaric._ _”_

The empathetic complement did not pull so much as a smirk from the severe young man. He watched Dorian’s brow go dark with knowing. Lashes fluttered of their own accord when the Keeper’s _shemlen_ lover placed a haunting kiss upon his neck, sultry eyes never leaving their reflections in the mirror. Hands pressed linen-clad hips, and Thalis pressed back against Dorian’s inviting body.

Their physiques matched measure for measure. It made the fit sublime.

“Thalis. Do you trust me?”

A nonplussed blink that bordered on admonishing, elven fingers reaching down to intertwine.

“If I didn’t, _ma falon,_ I would never come here.”

Dorian’s left hand gave a squeeze and quit his hip to pull a drawer beside them, then. Olivine eyes parted from reflections to see a wad of silken scarves come forth, spilling ‘twixt his lover’s fingers. He’d never seen the like and knew not what to think. The hand remaining on his hip turned Thalis clear around.

His man came pressing then, sending the Keeper’s shapely backside clamoring against the narrow dressing table, flooding the space between his knees. Color rushed Thal's kohl-lined cheeks as the _shemlen’s_ raging cock thrust against his own, bold and unapologetic. Thin-spun pants left not the slightest topographic detail to imagination. Guided by reflexes he never knew he had, Thalis reached to yank his lover by the ass and grind as he had _never_ done. He shoved painstaking slow, seething through his teeth with want and shame.

A kiss then, deep and plundering. As the well-groomed hairy lip screamed taboo in Thalis’ heart, he did his damnedest not to listen. The scarves of unknown purpose felt cool in his lover’s grip against his ear. As he sent his scratchy hands snaking under Dorian’s lounge pants to chase his skin, he came to know the fabrics of the scarves and pants were like.

As roughly as he started it, the _shemlen_ broke the kiss. He chuckled like the devil as their aching grind rubbed one thin layer of linen ‘twixt their rutting bodies. Neither man looked down. The black smudges on Dorian’s exotic face made him no less handsome.

“ _Amatus_ , I’m impressed. I never _dreamed_ you’d pants me first. Perhaps I am a better teacher than I thought.”

His actions given words, shame won Thalis over. Olive eyes went skittering, his hands withdrew and he recoiled against the mirror. No tears – he’d had no sense of those for _years_ – just _guilt_. Guilt that contorted his face and dropped his brow. He was too mortified at himself to speak. His borrowed pants were damp and cold with dewy arousal, catching 'gainst his rigid cock.

_I am **sick –** what is **wrong** with me? Selfish. **Disgusting.** My People deserve me to be better, **need** me to be **better** than **this.**_

The older man’s eyes went rolling. He could not read minds, but he knew Thalis well enough. He stepped back to gesture grand and wide, beseeching the cringing elf quite loudly.

“ _Fasta **vass!**_ Give it a **rest,** you spooked old coot!”

His voice went gentle then, and he leaned forward to kiss his blushing, cowering friend. Three fingers curled to hold the slipping scarves against his palm as he pinched one by the end and held the thing aloft between their faces. It captured Thalis’ attention, pulled a part of him from wallowing in self-loathing to wonder. The mirror rattled in its frame as Thalis shifted on the vanity.

“Enough, Thal. No more shame. Close your eyes.”

Thalis stared at the approaching sash. His heart was pounding in his throat. “Dorian. What are you doing?”

Satin came across his eyes to steal his sight. Hands moving deft behind his head to pull the blindfold snug, words rushing in his ear.

_“Taking **everything** they forced on you away. Let me.”_

His heart lurched as Dorian revealed a need he never knew. The Keepers’ Keeper could not surrender fast enough.

Smooth hands guided blindness swift and sure, and Thalis came to know the pleasures of a _shemlen_ bed. It rose to meet him, sank and wrapped him safe. Satin, _always_ satin, rushing on his skin like blissful drowning. His pants were gone, and all the rest was leaving.

He felt the aura first, and then the sliding skin. Dorian surrounded him with knees a’straddling at his chest, taking hold of his wrists. Here, as everywhere, their bodies looked alike; a definition borne of endless flicking skill, criss-crossed sinew corded over bone.

No soothing language given, and none needed. A gentle kiss upon his inner wrist ‘fore satin came to bind his palms together. As tension pulled his hands against the bed above his head, the slavery of his station slipped away. Here, in Dorian’s posh Antivan chambers, Thalis owed His People _nothing._ In no time, his ankles sighed the same. Never once, in all his life, had the Keepers’ Keeper felt so _free,_ robbed of every power he never asked for.

Only then, with eyes bound dark, limbs twisted tight and useless, could Thalis see the soul he lost when he was just a boy. It glimmered in the loose-strewn earth beneath his feet where it had always been. Though he dare not touch it, just to _know_ it gave him trembling joy.

They shared their mouths then, slow and sweet, and Thalis found he’d never truly kissed before. Every ridge and valley shook his waking mind with awe as his eager tongue explored the human’s teeth with wonder and delight.

Thalis was quite certain he had never been this hard. In all this time of binding, sinking plush, not so much as a wisp of aura brushed his pleading cock. It _ached,_ it _suffered._ Need whispered in his mind as his helpless hips began to rock beneath their savior. He would have whined, if his throat knew the tune.

When his teacher’s mouth parted from that blissful kiss of exploration, the youth began to beg. His voice was rough and deep, as it had been for years, but never before _desperate_ like this.

**_“Dorian, please – “_ **

_“Shhhh. I know. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Open your mouth.”_

As Dorian’s mouth began to roam his pupil’s sweat-slicked neck and chest, fingers guided something flat and spongy soft between his begging lips to rest between his teeth. Thalis wondered, but trust spared him any fears.

Not satin, then, but liquid velvet. Slipping wetness borne of magic trickled down his shaft and in between his legs to pool with no apologies on opulence beneath. Expert fingers paid lavish attentions, fondling the tender orbs beneath his straining cock. A whimpering moan exploded ‘round the fullness in his mouth, a sound the likes of which young Thalis had _never_ made, not once in his _entire_ life, alone or otherwise. The sheltered novice nearly spent himself on contact, and not one alive would blame him.

Foreplay was short – he’d lose himself and miss the lesson, his new teacher knew. Thalis felt Dorian’s body aligned and hovering, knees straddling low, static aura _smothering,_ caressing even as it stole the bound elf’s stunted breath.

The moment Dorian’s cock made grinding contact with the belly of his own, Thalis learned _exactly_ what the pad between his teeth was for.

As Dorian’s free hand strangled their cocks together between their pressing stomachs, silk ties held Thalis fast. Scarves pulled taut against his surging tension as he clenched his teeth with muffled groaning, urgent, desperate, _desperate._ His fingers meshed and knuckled white above his head. He banged his skull over and over and _over_ on the downy bed beneath him as he arched his back and screamed with helpless ecstasy. There were words in there somewhere, incomprehensible and lost.

He didn’t last – how _could_ he? The sound _alone_ would make such a cloistered virgin come. Rock hard and pumping tight, every thrust of that other body, the _cock_ of a human _man,_ **_squelching_** as it _**fucked**_ him. Helpless, **_helpless,_** bound and gagged with no choice but to yield, to feel, to **_lose._**

Every spongy curve, every ridge engorged with blood, he could _see_ them in his mind, slipping slickness painting vivid pictures that would stick for life. Even as crashing oblivion mounted in his banging skull, Thalis knew he _wanted_ as he never had before – he _would_ have this again, _again, **again,**_ and nothing **_His_** **_People_** said or did or thought could stop him.

He never knew before, but Thalis _deserved_ this. He knew now, but _only_ because teacher taught him so. ‘Fuck,’ that filthy, _filthy_ _shemlen_ word he heard just weeks ago and never spoke, a word that meant half-a-dozen things, all of them blasphemous.

_Fuck them. **Fuck them.** They never deserved me. They never **fucking DESERVED** me._

Every muscle snapped with tension as Thalis spent himself, sticky absolution glomming the coarse hairs beneath his lover’s navel in pulsing spurts. Groaning low and guttural, too-long lashes fluttering, tangled in unwatched blackness dark as pitch o’er eyes upturned with searing ecstasy. Neurons firing, _spasming_ against a clinging mess of diaphoretic silk.

Numb with euphoria instead of apathy, for once in his stolen life. A shattered, recollected mind so lost in revelation he did not perceive his selfless tutor coming all alone below, down there where the world was, where the bed was, where Thalis left his shackled body melting into boneless nothing.

Stillness, for a time. That quiet time before the world would bring him back unwilling, sucking like a ripping tide, leaving him no choice but to grasp that glinting soul beneath his feet and dig his heels for purchase.

The soul beneath his hand insisted. _Look at me. **Look** at me._

The silk that bound him fell away at once, the gag was gone. The blindfold lingered out of mercy. As Dorian yanked Thalis’ kohl-smeared cheek against his sweaty chest, the Dalish prodigy with a voice like splashing boulders did not cry.

He **_wept._**


	26. Mercy and Revenge

_*“_ _El harellen tu nan melava sa’vunin. Emmen u tu suledin.”_

_“Ir abelas, hahren?”_

“My sister slew all of us, woman, before she came for you. I alone survived, and here you are.”

_“Ir abelas, ma falon.”_

_“Ma emma **tel’** falon. _That is not why I have called you here. Agruin spoke of a hunter Lavellan, a foolish elf who bore great hate for you. _**Ma** harellan din, ma lethallen melava’nan. Dirth ma, asha. Na’harellan dareth?” _

\---

Her heart had been, in seasons past, moved to kill for justice.

This was new, and it was very different.

It was a near thing, the threatened caving of his skull ‘gainst grime-smeared, knife-scarred life’s remembrance. A blow past _crack_ to pulpy **_thwack_** _,_ skirting shy of _shatter._ The jade-lit hand that whipped the Veil to strike him clenched with will to mostly-snuff, and mostly-snuff the magic _did,_ jumping down his screaming throat to choke the man with nothing.

As the mourner’s body hung and strained in muted vain to thrash, Fen’Namas tread stygian-soled and seething through the twilit center of the _Arla’Numinan._

_“Harellan. Emma na harel. Emma nan’nadas.”_

_Traitor to our kin._

_I am your fear._

_My revenge is inevitable._

Her victim’s eyes held terror and knowing, _knowing._ Fen’Namas could quash his mortal life with _less_ than gestures, god or no, could have _years_ ago.

Her eyes had witnessed torments quite enough in thirty-something years. They braced to ration immortality ‘gainst the inevitable carnage that _always_ seemed to come with moving time. The lifespan of the world held suffering enough without the Wolf of Mercy spreading torture. She would end him quickly.

Impulse surged from brain to nerve to nerve to _almost_ clenching fist.

Clenching would not come. Her hand refused. Her chest lurched then, it jerked, and _not_ with hesitation.

A force without. It pierced her heart like chicken liver quivering on a fisher’s hook and bore the mighty creature gasping to her **knees,** demanding Una’s hell-bent, vengeful mind to siphon every last _iota_ of attention into **pain.** She floundered forward with her anchored hand upon the ground, sudden-sweaty fingers clutching at the robes above her breast.

As quickly as it struck, it left. Just as quickly, Mercy's unforgiving heart forgot the aching threat.

Una did not _bother_ standing up. She snarled with rage and stared wide-eyed with crazed intent to murder through her tangled golden hair, the hair that sheltered Thalis from His People as he wept that morning in his ice-wet bed, spangled then with twigs and leaves and _filth_ from **_him._** She grinned so wild and manic at the gurgling hunter hanging on the tree, her porcelain face began to crack.

Her spiteful hand clamped shut against the blighted earth, but only _nearly_ shut. Intangible divinity restrained, gave a shrug more mild than sorry, tut-tutted in her head:

_Let ‘er have it, then. Can’t say we didn’t try. Sorry, love - that job is taken._

 

Black and white. Day and night. Mercy and revenge.

There is no god of grayscale or of early afternoon.

There is no god of both.

The rebellious god of liberation never owned a slave.

 

Her own skull nearly cracked with seizing to the ground, a voice that seethed now bellowed grinding bone and bursting organ _hell._ Soot-slicked fingers scrabbled ‘gainst her seeming in-tact chest as eyes rolled with the foundering reality of _madness_ , like a one-time-spirit _hopelessly_ confused and frightened at his very nature and his loss of self, stabbed through his now-feeling, brittle ribs.

 _Just_ like that. **_Just._**  

Aaran Lavellan has fallen to the ground, and he is shaking.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *“Our traitors’ revenge took only a day. We alone endure.”
> 
> “I’m sorry, elder?”
> 
> “My sister slew all of us, woman, before she came for you. I alone survived, and here you are.”
> 
> “I’m sorry, my friend.”
> 
> “I am **not** your friend. That is not why I have called you here. Agruin spoke of a hunter Lavellan, a foolish elf who bore great hate for you. **My** traitor is dead, my people avenged. Tell me, woman. Does your traitor yet live?”


	27. Solidarity

Their haven was a mishmash of a place, though accoutrements did not defy aesthetic taste. Here and only here, his charms ensured the pebble-bedded stream ran warm to please her. It traversed narrow and hip-high ‘cross their private glen, dividing earth unevenly ‘twixt east and west. Shrouded with magic much akin to that which cloaked all places where the Veil was thin, mortal eyes and feet could never find this place unless escorted by a god. Ironic, as both the Dalish and the City Elves walked ‘round it every day.

The sky served as their ceiling, as did an unseen barrier that kept them from the rain. White trunks grew close enough to form undulating walls, save the modest entrance where trees yielded most unnaturally to form a pointed arch just short enough that Solas had to duck. A builder’s silent homage to his golden-headed lady’s height; every time he bowed, he’d gently smile.

Of course, he _built_ the place. He never bumped his head.

To both of them, the furniture from Skyhold purred nostalgia. His eye-rolling brothers would surely call him maudlin if they came to know how Fen’Harel snatched up every splinter from their Inquisition quarters and laid out their furniture in floor plans most identic.

In truth, the gesture was an effort to coax Una from the slump of waking up a goddess. Though it hadn’t worked, he left it. He found that he enjoyed the lark, although he had not heard his lady’s thoughts regarding. Before tonight, except for the unveiling of the place, they’d never dwelled within together.

Their den was rightly sized for housing her grand quarters on one side of the water, his modest holdings on the other. Una’s desk and chest of drawers were there, her mirror, her lovely bed. Solas left her rug behind in Tarasyl'an Te'las, lest grass and water damage it.

And here was his modest abode – no paints here, thus no drop cloths needed. The tufted antique arm chair under which he stashed his cakes was draped in gold-spattered linen just the same, as was the likewise tufted chaise on which he sometimes slept. Here was the sturdy little table where Solas sat and fell from lust to love with sparkling eyes and brushing feet. Tonight, two fine china cups of piping tea sat prim and patient as the couple bathed.

His tea was soporific. _Hers,_ her wise old lover knew without her knowing, was beyond blasphemic to Sylaise. It must be brewed quite carefully for the lady to avoid a _powerful_ upset stomach.

His side of that crooked line could boast a tree as well. A _real_ tree, a willow. The thing was young and had no weeping curtained canopy to offer, though striving stringy tendrils _did_ tickle at his ears as Fen’Harel leaned o’er his torpid lover in the babbling stream. Her eyes had that far-off look he’d come to know so well, glazed and gone with pondering.

She would come ‘round with time. Fen’Harel was _curious,_ but he had no fear or doubt and was not over-anxious. _Ah,_ the relief of having _power_ again, of feeling in control. The ageless one-time paragon of Arlathan could bide nothing else if not his time.

Besides. This was a vast improvement o’er the state in which he found her, contorted and alone. As many times as he’d seen the Inquisitor near death, Solas never grew accustomed. Now she was here, and she was safe, and he was _very_ tired.

As he reverently washed the dregs of bog and _Arla’Numinan_ from the inexplicably stoic mate reclining naked ‘gainst his crouching frame, neither of them spoke. One hand guided her head back against his unclad shoulder as he tipped a silver bowl of water ‘gainst her sweaty hairline. As sweet crystal ran in tinkling rivers down their bodies Una’s eyes slid closed on reflex, her neck went soft against her lover’s trustworthy support.

Ablutions paused, he set the gleaming bowl aside, strong arms came snaking ‘neath her breasts to hold her close and still against his chest. The kiss he pressed into her ear was noisy just to her, as was his word.

_“Ma’arlath.”_

Bliss. As they quietly conversed, they stayed that way.

_“…Hahren.”_

He closed his eyes and grinned against her ear, his old heart flooding with fond memories.

“ _Da’len?”_

 _“Hahren,_ I felt my body die today. Help me understand it.”

As he remembered rushing ‘cross the blighted earth to reach her writhing frame, Fen’Harel felt ill. He pressed another kiss into her cherished ear, this one stronger, reaffirming.

“To the best of my ability, _vhenan_ , I will. If your blossoming new talents are involved, I may only find new questions. What exactly happened?”

He felt her neck go rigid when he asked. His calculating mind went sharp, his ears went prickly. For seven beats, she didn’t speak.

“I tried to end a life.”

Fen’Harel’s shrewd eyes went dark with knowing.

So many questions the protective lover in his heart could ask, so many that he _wanted_ to – irrelevant, for now. Una did not _need_ a posturing mate.

She needed a teacher.

One word was all it took to seek a truth Solas was already quite sure of.

“Why?”

“…Punishment. Revenge.”

_Solidarity._

The shame in her whispering voice would answer Una’s question for her, if she only understood. He spoke the answer quite simply, though not without empathy. As he spoke, he kicked himself around the world and back again.

“Revenge defies your nature, Fen’Namas. You are a cynosure of mercy.”

As she reflected on his words, he secretly admired his mate’s composure less than _hours_ after suffering a Solidarity. He himself had never felt that hell, though he’d watched June lurch with throes the first time his newly Anchored brother tried to break a brilliantly crafted vase that reminded him of raven-haired Innaise, his once-loved bitter rival.

Young Solas braced his gasping brother’s shoulders ‘gainst a spinning floor of marble in Castle Arlathan that day, beyond a hundred lifetimes in the past. As the elf reeling on the ground regained his breath, Solas gave June’s glowing hand a studious prod.

_”Welcome back to Arlathan, brother. It would seem your new invention – ”_

**_“Hmph._ ** _I had better take another look at this.”_

_“…I’d say so, yes. You’ll forgive me, June, if I find I am too busy to be fixed with mine this evening. Another time, perhaps.”_

_“I tell you, Fen'Harel. I **will** make it work.”_

_Ahh, brother. To have been so young._

In present time, Fen’Namas was wholly skeptical. She twisted in his arms to shoot an unbelieving glare. A glare was _always_ what he got when she snapped out of any form of stupor.

“You told me gods are _self-made,_ Solas. No divine power sanctions you. Is this not the truth?”

“It is the truth.”

His heart swelled with pride at how quickly Fen’Namas caught on and asked precisely the right questions. Her sharp reasoning would never stop astounding him. It felt _good_ to love an equal.

“I nearly **_died._** If there is no divinity, Solas, _what_ or _who_ should **_dare_** police **my** conduct? Why should I be accountable to my _‘nature’?”_

“The Anchor. Did you not feel it fighting you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Water rushed with tinny running as Solas rose, offering his hand. As she found her feet, likewise dripping wet, he took up the beloved dressing gown of silk and fur that pooled beside him on the grassy bank and opened it to her.

“ _Ir abelas, da’len. Hahren_ has done you great disservice; I most certainly did _not_ expect a lesson on Solidarity to hold relevance so soon. Come sit. I’ve made our tea.”

She was ready to be furious with him. He slid Una’s furs over her shoulders without caressing as he liked, for he knew full well the ice beneath his feet was thin. She approached the table with the unrushed stately grace that rode low in her hips and drove him barking mad.

He kept his feet to himself as he sank into his own high-backed chair, taking up his clinking teacup. _Clink, sip, clink._ Eyelids heavy with fatigue slid closed. His smooth head came to rest upon his little wall for one, full aware of verdant eyes that burned across the table.

_I love you, woman. Fen’Namas have mercy, you **exhaust** me._

“Do not be cross with me, _vhenan._ For us, this is the safest place on earth; I had no cause to rush, and the two of us have not been on good terms for months. Dorian once told me you could find danger at a tea party – the man is smarter than he dresses.”

Silence, glaring, waiting. She only sipped her tea because she _had_ to, thanks to all the love they made in Castle Denerim. One breath flooded tired old lungs, a deep breath, long and slow. Fen’Harel exhaled, and he began to speak.

“You understand the spirit world reflects our own. Compassion, for example, ‘mongst the living is quite rare. Spirits of compassion, doubly so.” Both hearts lurched towards gentle Cole, and both brows faintly furrowed.

“Go on.”

“When first you walked the Fade, my orb rolled towards your feet. You touched it, you were Anchored. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A puzzled flash, frustrated. “Why did I touch it? It was –”

 **“No.** Why were you Anchored?”

“Because I _touched_ it, Solas.  I stole the Anchor from Corypheus because I touched it first.”

“That is the truth, but only part of it.”

“Speak plainly. I am in no mood.”

“I am speaking plainly, _vhenan._ Please be patient and resist the urge to interrupt.”

A short-lived war of white and gold across the table. Willful as she was, Fen’Namas gave in to teacher’s steely squint much easier than Veyla ever did. As her eyes conceded, Fen’Harel began her lesson.

“The Anchor tethers you to the Fade. It is a strength _created_ by the Fade. There is a balance to the Anchor, as with all magic. The Anchor would have never taken to your hand if you weren’t… _suitable.”_

“Suitable? _Corypheus_ was suitable?”

“Indeed, he was. His malice was unrivaled, all-consuming. The Fade does not filter good from evil. All flavors of mind are equally useful. It is _single-mindedness_ that counts, a trueness of hue. If I had found you first, _vhenan,_ things would be very different. As it was, Corypheus sufficed. For his soul _alone_ , I searched lifetimes.”

His eyes came open at her silence. She was glaring down into her tea, her feverish mind shrouded in erroneous preconceptions he’d left lingering since he met her.

She didn’t understand.

“Una.”

Her eyes rose to meet him, striving, frustrated. His tone was calm and even. _Oh,_ he’d missed her as a pupil.

“The Fade draws from all of us. The feelings of the living, here among us, are its lifeblood. The spirits beyond the Veil cannot _exist_ without us; we define their form, we shape them with our very _being._ Our motivations are a resource, a building block, the glue that binds their world together. From our talks in the past, you know this to be true.”

She nods, she’s with him. He continues.

“What you fail to understand, _da’len,_ is this: not all living creatures have the same degree of impact on the Fade.

“You are a perfect example. You are forgiving beyond reason, Una. Some might say benevolence _defines_ you. This affects more than just your personality; it affects your very soul. You are not divine, _vhenan,_ but your soul _is_ rare.

“I cannot say if you were born this way, or if your life and personality conspired to _make_ your soul so bright. Regardless of my speculations on your origins, to the Fade and its inhabitants, your soul burns more brightly than Veilfire to an endless swarm of moths. Do you understand?”

She balked at him, just a little. “I…vaguely _._ To be frank, it sounds like puffed-up flattery. Surely, I’m not so gracious as all that.”

“You are. Ask Cole, _ma lath,_ and he will say the same with a look of far-off wonder in his eyes. Your soul was once radiant to him, as it is to me.”

She set her empty teacup down and shifted in her chair, looking at her hands reflectively. When his foot brushed hers to offer comfort, she looked up with a wan smile.

“As you say, _vhenan._ Continue.”

His arm came to rest upon the table, beckoning to hold her Anchored hand. When she complied, his thumb went kneading ‘gainst the glowing jade that marked her palm.

“Mm. The orb tangled in my robes behind you is an ancient Elvhen weapon. It functions by tethering the user to the Fade via an Anchor. If The Fade has nothing to gain, the connection will not take. If, however, the user’s soul is large with purpose, Anchoring is successful. This connection is a symbiotic contract between the user and the Fade. The user wields unfathomable power, the Fade accesses bounteous resources.

 _“Andraste_ did not choose you, my beloved. You were chosen by the Fade itself, for your spirit plays one note so loud and bright.

“One wields the Anchor under stipulations. If your actions offend your soul’s purpose, you taint the well from which the Fade is drawing. The Fade, in turn, reacts accordingly to strive for balance in a universal language – Pain. This effect is called a Solidarity.

“Typically, the threat of Solidarity is wholly irrelevant to the user. Persons guided by such outstanding convictions rarely deviate, unless temptations are _quite_ compelling. Though capricious, Sylaise would never think to drown a child, any more than Dirthamen would dream of spilling secrets. Still, Una, I should have warned you. I cannot apologize enough for what you felt tonight.”

 “…One must be a god to experience a Solidarity?”

“You know as well as I that ‘god’ is just a word, _da’len._ Had you attempted vengeance in the months before my blood made you immortal, the outcome would be quite the same.

“Of course, my brothers _are_ all tethered through orbs and anchors of their own, and they just so happen to be paragons of whatever virtue tethers them. What’s that _shemlen_ saying…Ah. _If the shoe fits, wear it.”_

She watched his thumb run circles in her palm as she came to understand. She was growing tired and nauseous – time for the _venuth_. She nearly vomited at the thought of it.

And then, more dreadful dawning. She closed her fingers on his stroking thumb.

“Solas. I did not steal this Anchor from Corypheus. I stole it from you. The light in my hand was _your_ Anchor to the Fade, and now it’s mine.”

Gently, _softly,_ gazing like an autumn sky reflecting on a placid lake. “Yes.”

“Is that why…”

Teacher waited. Nothing. “Mmm?”

“Is _that_ why you fell in love with me, Solas? Could you even _help_ it?”

Only Una could take Fen’Harel aback. His thumb stilled on her hand as they stared at each other.

“There is no precedent for this, for us. That I love you is the only truth that matters.”

“Can I give it back to you?”

 ** _“Vhenan._** I would not **_want_** you to. It marks your being as wholly mine with more significance than any _shemlen_ wedding ring.”

“But your orb, it can’t – “

He chuckled at her concerns, rising from the table in a ploy to change the topic. He arched his back and shook his head like a newly bathed dog, he rolled the sinew in his shoulders.

“Anchor or no, in the hands of Fen’Harel our unlocked orb is _far_ from ornamental. Furthermore, as you are well aware, I am quite capable of killing for revenge without experiencing discomfort.”

He walked beside the table, swept the Anchor in his hand and her fingers along with it, pressed the lot against his mouth to sweetly kiss before he whispered.

“My love. I will kill for you as easily as picking up a fallen scrap of parchment.”

Dread washed her, instinct yanked her hand away from invitation. She eyed him like a devil making seedy offers.

“Somehow, Solas, I doubt commanding someone else to take revenge on my behalf will foot the bill.”

“We are similarly offended in most things _._ You needn’t bend me to your will; simply share the words that drove you mad. Likewise moved, revenge will be my own. This is what the Anchored brethren do, _vhenan –_ We help each other work around it, if it pleases us.”

She felt fear creeping up her throat like bile, she sharply shook her head. “No. I was wrong. My rage was borne of guilt, not justice. I blame Corypheus for all the evils that have fallen on my people. He _alone._ ”

He looked put-off as he watched her rise and walk o’er to the stream. An arching crystal bridge came because she willed it.

_You see, Mythal? My blood makes a truth-twister of your newest daughter. Falon’Din was right – You named your rebel dog quite poorly._

“Very well. Deny your mate his rights, vexing woman. Your mortal heart is complicated, and I am too tired to press you.”

Her desk. He cringed to hear the clattering silver flasks as she pulled her bottom drawer.

“I imagine you _are_ quite tired, dear old wolf. I will miss you as you sleep. I do hope it will be peaceful.”

By the time she finished quaffing at the bitter stuff, her sneaking lover crossed the stream and slid his arms around her waist. Insatiable as the two of them were, his embrace held no intent aside from comfort o’er the poison.

The subject of his peace _did_ raise a question.

“I am sure Veyla was most pleased to see you.”

_“…Fenedhis!”_

As Una cursed herself, Solas rushed across the stream to grab his robes.

\---

Exhaustion left her in the black. She slept through the stinging of her ruined hands, curled up in the trampled grass that lived beneath her feet.

When Fen’Namas knelt to pluck her weightless darling from the ground, Veyla’s head began to loll. Swift and tender, Solas caught the base of Veyla’s skull and guided her cheek to rest on Una’s shoulder.

Una clenched her teeth. “Solas, please. Her hands.”

Even as Una winced and cuddled at the conked-out girl, his feathered touch pulsed healing over Veyla’s shredded fingers. He brushed her mousy hair across her forehead in a gesture of affection, and he cupped his tired old hand against her rounded face.

The exchange was done in whispers.

“She has missed you dearly, Una. She sought to murder me in public when she convinced herself the Dread Wolf ate your soul. I tell you, this girl saw the awful truth of me, and she was _not_ afraid _._ In all my lifetimes, I have never seen the like.”

Una clutched her would-be daughter tighter to her bosom as the pair began to walk. His arm slid around her shoulders as he kept her side, watching over both of them as trickling moonlight dappled passing heads.

“The truth of you is not so awful, _ma vhenan,_ and this girl never had the _sense_ to be afraid.”

“Mm. Well. Regardless of my awfulness, Veyla is the only creature in this world who loves you just as much as I do.”

“She loves you too, old dog. You will wake in three days’ time to Veyla’s kisses, I am sure of it.”

Solas chuckled with love as his hand slid to Una’s lower back to guide his treasures ‘cross the threshold. He stooped to follow through the low arch of their door. As he bowed, he gently smiled.

“I doubt that very much. A _hug,_ perhaps. You know full well how Veyla hoards her kisses.”


	28. Don't Call Me That, It's Sad

Varric’s suite had never seen a morn this noisy. A hefty wool-socked heel took hold ‘gainst varnished wood to bear the weight of a four-legged chair gone biped, amber eyes sought solace in the rafters. Mother used to crack him ‘cross the shins for leaning back like this, he used to break her kitchen chairs and bust his arse. If she were still around, he’d fill her house with seats this strong, he’d visit her and teeter every chance he got just to earn her beatings.

With time, the ping-ponging altercation to his left took on the sound of being underwater. He marveled at Cole’s seeming lack of empathy, at how loud and _angry_ the stuffed-up Kid was, how personally he took Daisy’s refusal. Though part of him felt saddened and responsible, the rest of him delighted in the scandal. _Imagine._ What would Chuckles say about his rare and precious spirit of Compassion with a capital ‘C’, telling Daisy to sod off and bob a knob?

_Who **taught** him that? Not me._

Varric’s nose exhaled relief when Daisy moved to touch the door.

“Halam sahlin.”  _This conversation is over._

“Tel garas solasan. Ma vhen  **isala**  revas!”  _Swallow your pride. Your people_ ** _need_** _this (freedom)!_

 _There_ it is. Varric wondered whether Cole would drop _that_ hammer. Their audience of one grinned wide and impish, he nearly pulled his neck with jerking to see Daisy’s face. She’d been slinging Elvish slander in the fray, unaware the Kid was every _bit_ as fluent. Varric didn’t understand a word of it, not that it mattered. Her mouth and nose went ugly as she recoiled from the door to gape at Cole, shocked. Appalled. The Kid folded his arms at his chest, his expression wholly smug and uncompromising.

_Priceless._

“Era  _seranna_ ma, elgar!?”  _ **Excuse**_ _me, demon!?_

“Ir  **tel’** elgar.”  _I’m_ ** _not_** _a demon._

Their eyes locked horns, they meant to start the cycle all again. Even as he chuckled low and shook his head in disbelief at their rivalry’s dedication, Varric plucked an apple from his untouched breakfast and lugged it at Cole’s arm. He yelped, he jumped, he glared indignant – he’d been so wrapped in arguing, he’d forgotten Varric’s presence.

“Kid. Knock it off.”

Merrill snorted satisfaction. Cole shot her a glare before his boots twisted on the floor to point their toes at Varric. Cole shoved his finger in her face, hoarse with flu and yelling, almost _whining,_ an indignant child wrongfully accused. Though by no means as endearing, his demeanor conjured up fond memories for Varric, a blooming lad’s denial of flirting with his giggling future in the mud.

“Tell _her_ to knock it off! She’s  _ **stupid,**_ Varric! I’m just trying to _help,_ and she won’t stop  _yelling_  at me!”

 _“ **Excuse**_ me? I’m not  _stupi – “_

Varric's outstretched hand chaperoned his interruption. “Kid, you’re one to talk. A woman tells you she’s scared of the boogeyman. Your solution is to bring him ‘round for dinner, and you scream at her when she says no?”

Cole’s hard-heeled boots stomped loud against the rattling floor, clenched fists trembling in the air beside his thighs. “Solas isn’t  _scary!”_

As Varric sighed, the dark humor on his face melted into disappointment.

“I’m surprised at you. You know a heckuva lot more about Dalish culture than I do. He’s the  _Dread Wolf,_ Daisy’s  _ **Dalish.**_ He is  _incredibly_   scary. I know better  _now,_  but I’ll tell you what – when I first saw Chuckles for what he is, **I**  was terrified. Kid, I’m  _Andrastian.”_

“But his soul is – “

 _“We_  can’t see souls, Kid. These days, neither can you.”

All went quiet for a moment. Ghost lad’s tell-tale frustrated snarl; Varric understood. Cole knew he was missing something, but _what?_ Chronically exhausted with his own never-ending flaws, the Kid was struggling to give a shit.

Thankfully, Daisy kept her trap shut. Most _were_ moved to silence when they bore witness to Cole’s ever-dwindling gaps in social programming.

He had, by leaps and bounds, improved. Still, Cole could be so _difficult_ to reason with. Varric, among the one-hand’s finger counting few who had a chance in hell of guiding Cole to parse, felt doubly beholden to oblige.

_Come on, old man. You got him into this._

Varric’s eyes drifted to the sloppy mess of papers and Maker-knows-what-else splayed on the surface ‘fore his feet, searching for some cue, that “eureka!” trigger that would escort the Kid back home to empathy. For once the dwarf’s beloved writing desk, his cluttered font of inspiration, came up short.

When Varric’s eyes fell back on Cole again, he grinned wry as he recalled the yellowing bruise he’d glimpsed in the young man’s gawking moment of undress an hour or so ago.

 _Eureka._ The dwarf slipped _girlfriend_ in with jolly jingling.

“Does your  _girlfriend_  know?”

Full stop. Guilt at lies, a staying stab of longing. Cole’s heart changed colors quicker than a mage could paint his house, his eyes hit the floor and his slumping shoulders did their best to follow. Tattling fingers pressed his lambskin collar o’er that secret mottled mark from four nights prior, her kiss so deep it would take beyond a week to fade.

A chuckle at the breakthrough, not unkind. “I didn’t think so.”

Cole muttered in response, oblivious to Merrill’s eyes upon him. So struck was he, his syntax went awry.

“Love they always wanted, comfort, safety, sweet. He’s happy, calls her little and she  _likes_ it. He’s my friend, I  _can’t_. If Veyla knew, she’d – “

“She’d what? _Fear_ him?”

It pained Varric to watch Cole shrink, to see him twist his hair, bobbing on flexing knees and squirming feet. He was sure the Kid was longing for his hat. His answer was a whispered croak.

“…Yes. No matter what I said.”

“She’s a smart kid. Chuckles loves her, she trusts you... What makes you so sure?”

Cole’s shoulders rolled with tension and his tears began to well. His guilt sank to the floorboards and filled the room like fog, his confession a concession to the frightened, angry woman at his side.

“Because she’s Dalish. Merrill, I-…I’m _sorry.”_

Cole’s one-time adversary looked beyond surprised.

His hand rushed to his mouth, his glove muffled a quiet sob. One big tear splattered on his ivory boot, his pale blue eyes clenched shut. Varric was  _not_ Solas – when Cole began to cry, the dwarf’s propped feet were on the floor and clopping quickly closer.

“C’mere. Kid, c’mere. It’s _alright!”_

Varric laughed with good-nature as he spread his arms, and Merrill only watched. Their hug was awkward, rare. In dire need of comfort, supple leather creaked. Cole found his knees and bent his cheek to Varric’s sturdy shoulder, nervous hands fidgeting together in his kneeling lap. Varric did not rub Cole’s back, instead slapping brisk with manly pats – not as soothing as Una’s cooing rubs, but it _did_ help. Varric prattled on with platitudes of parenthood. Faithful to his fostered role as Varric's son, Cole heard but hardly listened.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re still a little sick, Kid. You need to eat.”

His sniffled words were more than miserable, but his clarity was back. “Varric. I messed up. I can’t fix it – I can’t save these people anymore.”

“Sure you can. The Kirkwall Alienage isn’t _going_ anywhere. If you’re nicer to Daisy, you two will work it out. You just need to slow it down, Kid. Changing minds takes time.”

“It’s dank and muddy, they’re hungry, they’re frightened of the nighttime, they’re frightened of the _street_ – Slow it  _down?_ Varric, I know you like it, but - This place is _horrible.”_

Cole clenched his teeth and seethed on _horrible._ Merrill slowly shook her head in disbelief, moved by the tears of this grown man so worried for her people. Unbeknownst to Cole, she and Varric exchanged feeling stares o’er his white-clad shoulder.

She spoke then, begrudging. “Bring him here tomorrow.  _Not_ the Alienage.”

Cole froze, his breath hitched as his eyes snapped wide. He abandoned Varric’s hug to pounce her like a viper, squeezing fierce and hopeful. Prickly Merrill didn't receive affection very often; she went stiff, her cheeks turned pink against Cole’s chest.

“Ma serannas, ma  _serannas,_ _falon!_ I’m sorry for the yelling!”

She gave his back an awkward pat, she moved to back away.  _My,_ but he smelled lovely for a  _shem,_ his every aspect faintly touched with liquid Dalish catnip. Merrill became vexed anew by this irresistible fragrance, remembering the bewitching magic she’d spotted from across the Alienage before she even _met_ this man, shimmering sneaky even now in every seam.

Irritated. In her tone, it showed.

“I  _did_  yell first. Though it’s no wonder y’wear so many enchantments on y’clothes. Not exactly a smooth talker, are you?”

Unoffended, just confused. His arms dropped, his neck went crooked. “I’m really sorry. I usually do better. What's that mean?”

“What?”

“What you just said, about my clothes. Is that a joke?”

Varric watched Merrill’s eyebrows go wonky. _He_ wasn’t sure just what she meant, either. When she looked at him for help, he simply shrugged and held his hands aloft with one short shaking of his head. She looked back at Cole, her answer most perplexed.

“It’s-…not a joke, no? You  _really_ aren’t aware you’re wearing more attraction charms than a magic-gifted strumpet?”

Cole blinked at her, innocent and daft. He lifted up his coat to look beneath, as though he’d find something new. No, just clothes. He scowled.

“Merrill…That’s not funny.”

“I’d say it isn’t! They’re well executed, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Not exactly trustworthy, is it? Imbuing yourself like that?”

Varric hitched a brow. Two epiphanies in one morning? He’d have a fine time writing after breakfast.

“Kid.”

Cole turned, his head still tilted to the side, his hands still rifling through his jacket.

“Didn’t  _Dorian_ buy that for you?”

Cole was pleased at Varric’s caring to remember, he smiled as he responded. “That’s right. Solas said we should look official, and Dorian said he’d – ”

“You used to bug him all the time about wanting to look handsome, right?”

The deshyr wheezed with laughter as he watched Cole plummet from confused to positively _mortified._

_“Maker’s **Breath.”**_

“You Andrastian now, Kid?”

Of course he wasn’t, but he didn’t care. If Cole croaked before, he was _doubly_ croaking now. His voice was high and cracking. “The-…the maids! The women in the street! That little boy’s grandma who wouldn’t stop… _petting_ me!”

While Merrill and Varric laughed themselves to tears at his expense, Cole shed his coat like it was made of bees. He left it on the floor and stormed into Varric’s room to get his things, flushing red from crown to chest.

Varric followed, leaning in the doorframe. He heard Daisy take a seat behind him. His voice still rang with laughter as he watched Cole stomp across the room and snatch up his quirky posy made of knives. As he tucked that wound-up satchel ‘gainst his ribs, Varric watched the lad get lighter in his boots.

“Don’t be mad, Kid! You going home? Eat something first.”

Swift and sure, half-smiling now, Cole came across the room and took a knee to hug at Varric once again. Their second hug was much more natural.

“I’m not mad, not at _you._ I’ve got to change. I’ll eat at home.”

“Good. Steak?”

“Yeech. _N_ _o._ ”

 _“Protein,_ Kid. You’re still sick – Hang on, now!”

Cole was so anxious to get home, he could hardly make it through goodbyes. The hand that hugged one instant went digging for his Emissary stone the next, and he rose quickly to his feet.

“What? I’ll _eat!”_

“One second, Romeo."

A pang. He's read it. "Don't call me that, it's  _sad."_

"Lover boy, then. You know you can pass that cold of yours, right?”

He seemed disinterested, waved his hand and shook his head. His phlegmy voice belied the truth of it. “I’m almost better. The Dalish don’t _have_ colds.”

“Elves can’t _pass_ colds, Kid, but they can catch ‘em from humans. You don’t know this? No sharing food, no sneezing on people...You follow?”

Cole’s half-nod was inadequate. Varric cleared his throat, demanding attention. It worked, and Cole’s eyes went sheepish as Varric clicked his tongue and tapped the unmarked crook of his own neck.

“Kid. You _know_ I’m glad for you. But if you run home and snog, she’ll catch your cold and blow your cover. They’ll string you _both_ up by your toes.”

Crestfallen and caught red-handed, Cole visibly sagged. _“Oh._ I-…how long?”

“Another couple days. The coast is clear when you _aren’t_ talking like you’ve got a clothespin on your nose.”

Cole nodded then, resigned, his sails half as windy. He paid them both absent goodbyes, he left them with a flash. Merrill piped up from the other room, perched on the edge of Varric’s desk. “I still can’t believe that man knows Elvish. He’s so… _strange._ Poor sod. His cold’s not contagious anymore, y’know.”

Varric’s eyes lingered on the spot where Cole’d been standing before he turned to speak with Daisy, still leaning in the door. “He's weird, but he's a good egg. Shit, Daisy! I’m not a doctor – you should’ve said something. Poor Kid, his face!”

“Better safe than sorry if it's true. Does he _really_ have a Dalish sweetheart?”

“Sure does, adores the girl. She’s a piece of work herself. You know, it’s all one Keeper now.”

Sorrowful inflection, elven fingers twiddling at a pewter paperweight. “I heard. The Keepers’ Keeper, that young Lavellan First. I hear he’s cross.”

“That’s her brother. Closest to a princess as it gets, t’my understanding.”

Merril’s brow jumped high with shock, she locked eyes with Varric. “That boy’s girlfriend is a _Lavellan?_ Mythal have mercy, they’re either very brave or very stupid. M’glad you warned him off that cold.” At the questioning noise that bubbled in Varric’s throat, Merrill clarified with a breathy whisper.

“A _shem?_ They wouldn’t _string her up,_ Varric. They’d dock her ears and throw her out, if they didn't kill her.”


	29. Nothing Else Would Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bellasa = allow many; slut.  
> \---

_Old cur of mine. You are **delicious** when you sleep._

The discomfort of _venuth_ was nothing. It was torture pure and simple to behold his sharp and handsome face, to hear his throat a’purr with slumbering and leave him be. Solas was a very still and quiet sleeper; she could only hear his snoozing with her head against his chest.

The first night, that was _all_ she did. Once she’d tucked Veyla safe and sound into her own massive bed, Una placed his passive hand upon her ribs as she lay perpendicular and listened to his heart. With this, she broke his stern ground rules of sleeping undisturbed for three whole days in less than minutes. Aspiring willow tendrils hung low to nearly brush them both. She spent hours awake and listening to him beside the stream that night, her fluffy bed forgotten. Solas much preferred the ground. When pressed before, he'd nipped the corner of her mouth and told her so, whispering promises a'plenty for her bed in three days' time.

When Veyla woke that morning it was all Una could do to hush her squalling tears of joy, to stop the girl from shaking Fen’Harel awake whilst squawking, _Dumb old man!_ _Why didn’t you just **say** so!_

Once Veyla’s rage at him subsided, she asked after Cole. Had he been to visit, had Una seen him _anywhere_ these past two days? Could they go find him, _please?_ When Fen’Namas assured the girl her beau was well and fine in Varric’s care, probably quite busy, possibly quite _drunk,_ Veyla’s sour-faced pestering reluctantly desisted.

That’s not to say young Veyla didn’t stew.

With Solas fast asleep, it fell to Fen’Namas to keep their dollhouse of a kingdom running. She was unsure exactly _how_ he used the orb for traveling, and so she fell to Dorian for help with fetching meals. He’d been expecting her on that first morning, though he didn't think she'd come without Solas. He was leaning ‘gainst that great old tree beside the world’s longest table. He smirked and watched his dearest friend come striding into view, his young lover’s little sister nearly crowing at her side.

Folks were gathering already, Una was quite late. Thalis and Lace were muttering together over _something,_ the Grand First was nowhere to be seen. As always, Dorian looked dashing. As he sized Una up, he saw her mood was much improved compared to that unexplained rage she’d plagued him with last night.

“Good morning, darling. We were wondering. Not so _grouchy_ today, I hope? Have you gone and slain your husband?”

A sultry chuckle then, a quiet one. Her _husband?_ She did wish, but no. Aaran was around here somewhere, no doubt trembling as he should. Of course, she _did_ understand who Dorian really meant.

When Dorian spoke, those gathered stopped to look, and all responded with a bounding _gasp!_ Many of the Dalish bowed, some even took to knees. Those who’d met her yesterday when she came to pull the Keepers’ Keeper and his right hand from the bath shared a certain smugness, that unique brand of ‘ **in** -club’ pride. The City Elves just smiled, pleasant and uncomfortable. They’d heard of her. The scribe she’d longed to speak with stumbled from the crowd, he cried ‘ _My Lady Lavellan!’_ with joy. Una held her arms up with a graceful laugh to permit the young man’s feverish embrace, Veyla snickering sing-song teasing nonsense by her side. The rascal earned a robe-shrouded kick for that, but she was wholly undeterred.

As she rubbed the young man’s back, Una answered Dorian, her voice cheery as the brightest summer morning. Her mind’s eye took a glinting rumor old as time in hand, assessed the thing most mildly, shrugged and dashed it on a rock for all to see before she dusted off her hands.

“Of course not, _ma falon._ The Dread Wolf is asleep, not _dead_ – although, I suppose Fen’Harel is such a heavy dreamer, the two are much the same! Occupied as he is, it falls to _us_ to gather breakfast. Shall we?”

Dorian hawed so hard he choked and coughed with snorting laughter, turning red and bracing ‘gainst the tree. He wheezed his phrasing, something like, “You batty hag! I love it!”

Lace and Thalis each did double-takes, their own surprise varying degrees of mild. Veyla grinned all toothy, like a fox with a plump belly full of muskrat. The aspiring young linguist hugging Una’s middle cried out for everyone to hear, “I _knew_ it! How **_fantastic!_** When will he wake up?!”

The rest of them? Well. No one fainted. The gathered Dalish _did_ bend away from her like wheat that disbelieves the breeze, and this sent the mixed-in City Elves a'stumbling with a unanimous “ _huh?”_

So hip-high was she in plainspeak explanations, it was the longest lasting breakfast _Namadahlan_ would ever know. The Dalish ranged from terrified to flabbergasted. The City Elves were simply curious, that half-hiked eyebrow sort of _“huh.”_

When Thalis moved to scold his sister for following Lady Lavellan around all morning, Una clucked the man aside. She did not catch Veyla sticking out her tongue to taunt her brother as they walked away, else she would have flicked her ear and made the girl apologize.

That day, Una impressed upon the girl a _healthier_ relationship with practice. _Go to it, dear, but stop for dinner. I have much to do._

When Veyla parted ways to take up Aaran’s bow, she found him waiting in the grass she’d stood and flattened all day yesterday. He berated her for leaving his bow strung and sitting through the dewy night, he shoved the ruined bloody bowstring in her face, he lectured briefly on humidity and wood. When his belt cracked in the air and lashed her arm to teach her better, she clenched her teeth and stood her ground.

He struck her twice: Once for the bow, and once for necking. He'd missed that detail several nights before, she wore a different shirt. No one else had noticed it at all save Fen’Namas, who sweetly cooed, and Fen’Harel who turned his head and grumbled.

“There will be time enough for courtship when you’ve learned your basic skills, _asha._ Unless you’d rather give up archery and bear your clan a child?”

“No, _hahren.”_

“Then **control** yourself, _bellasa_. That young hunter from Clan Lamli, no doubt. He looks at you enough.”

Her adversary was _so_ wrong, it was all Veyla could do to stop the corners of her mouth from twitching with her blithe defiance. Misinformed castigation set aside, he taught her to restring his bow. He reminded Veyla of her pending right of passage, and he let her be with no further instruction or harassment.

She loosed her arrows through the afternoon. _Pull, squint, fly. Repeat. Now, gather._ She had improved, but only slightly, nowhere _near_ enough. Still, she was determined, and she practiced ‘til her tummy bade her quit.

She gave word of her private war with Aaran Lavellan to no one. Not a _soul._ She wore her only shirt with sleeves to dinner, lest prying eyes take note of injuries stubbornly sustained. Fortunately enough for her, the collar on that rough-hewn shirt rode high. It would not do to let her brother see the kiss.

Aaran, as per usual, did not come to dinner.

That night, their bellies full and Solas very much asleep, Dalish outcasts two generations deep shared giggling whispered stories in a _shemlen_ feather bed. They were both clutching pillows to their chests, their foreheads nearly touching.

The women found a blessing in each other. Veyla was quite used to staying up all night, and Una had no choice. The company helped Veyla’s sadness – Night two, and Cole was nowhere to be found. They hadn’t gone this long apart since first they’d met. Likewise, the giggling girl kept Una’s mind from worrying after dozens of things – What would Solas say when he woke up and found his cover wholly blown? What new knowledge would he wake with, what comes next? What in a thousand hells would she do about Aaran? Though his name caused Una to see blood, she was terrified to give the truth to Solas. Misplaced blame and guilt, perhaps - she couldn't face it. Ah, and the coronation was five days away. So much politics, so much at stake.

Save it for tomorrow. Tonight, the world was them and only them.

“There were lizards _everywhere._ In his saddlebags, too. I don’t know _how_ she pulled it off! Solas threw out all his food, and he was too proud to mention it. I don’t know how he didn’t starve.”

“…! I bet he turned into a wolf and hunted, really late at night!”

A reflective pause. Una grinned with her whole face. “You know what? I bet you're right!”

“Did he scream when he found them?”

“Gods, no. Never. His _face,_ though, like he swallowed a live toad.”

An impish grin. “You slept _right_ next to him.”

A playful pinch. “Of course I did, _da’lath._ Oh, he _hated_ her. He terrorized her for _days._ I never took her in the field with him again.”

Veyla keened with hissing laughs, she kicked her feet with glee. “I want to meet her! Bring her to your party!”

Una abandoned the pillow she was squeezing to pull the joyful young woman in for a hug. Veyla threw her sloppy leg over Una’s knees, burying her cheek against her breast. Una’s robes were _just_ as soft as Cole’s pajamas, but much thicker. She felt a pang, made up her mind to sneak into his empty little house tonight and steal all three sets to make a nest, and _never_ give them back to him. If he ever _came_ back.

Una’s voice pulled Veyla out of stewing, as it had all evening long.

“Sera has moved on, _da’len,_ I’ve no clue where to find her. Even so, perhaps you _will_ meet her someday. You know who she reminded me of, a little?”

“Nuh-uh. Who?”

“She reminded me of Dibs.”

Veyla pulled back to find Una’s eyes, her own near-flat with quickly-riled impatience. _“Who?”_

“Dibanath, _da’len._ Your father. I knew him well, and Syvia too, but you-…you were always too young, dear, too fragile. Would you like to hear about them now?”

For the remainder of their night alone together, Veyla’s eyes were wide and full of stars.

\---

Cole could not undress fast enough.

He threw her present on his bed, he strode across the room to pluck that very _expensive_ talisman of blood-red carven stone from his shaving table. He pressed it to the wall of his enamel tub and let it go, the thing slid clinking to the bottom where it began to effervesce and throb with heat. He shed his clothes then, flinging every resented article against the wall, even his boots – they were the loudest. By the time he’d stripped himself of trickery, his bath was hot and ready.

His bare foot kicked something cold and noisy 'cross the floor as he passed before his mirror.  As he rushed to settle into his inviting bath, picking at the tangled cord that held his hair, he turned his eyes o’er his bare shoulder for a glance at what that _something_ could have been.

The white-washed floor before his mirror was smeared with days-old blood. The thing he’d kicked, his razor. He spun from arse to knees, gripping the edge of his beloved tub to lean out and have a look. Even as he dripped, he gasped with horror.

Pawprints. **_Pola?_**

So much for the bath. He left his piping water quick as lightening, snatching up a towel on his way to dress – he owned six of them, _impossibly_ fluffy, all neatly stacked and folded on the floor beside his tub. The towel was a gesture out of habit. When he jumped commando into patchwork pants he hadn’t worn for _months,_ Cole’s body was by no means dry.

Like the matching shirt he’d pieced together lifetimes prior, he chose the pants because they were his loosest and most ugly. His hat would make the outfit, if only sly-faced Veyla hadn’t ferreted the cherished thing away in an attempt to bribe her blushing suitor up the ladder to her room.

In truth, he never _dreamed_ he’d wear this stuff again. In spite of urgent fretting over Pola, the unwittingly bewitching uniform had worked Cole’s blooming vanity into a resentful tiff. He _harrumphed_ defiance at his shoddy reflection as he tied a clean black kerchief ‘round his face, lest he spread the germs Varric had him anguishing about.

His hair a half-wet tangled mess, his clothes those of a derelict, Cole snatched his Emissary stone out of the blighted pocket on the floor and rushed to find the child. Or, at the very least, his mother.

\---

“And then one day, while passing through the forest, Falon'Din and Dirthamen came across an old and sickly deer resting beneath a tree.

“‘Why do you sit so still, little sister?’ asked Falon'Din.

“‘Play with us,’ said Dirthamen.

“’Alas,’ spoke the deer, ‘I cannot. I am old, and although I wish to go to my rest, my legs can no longer carry me.’...”

Cole was _never_ home in the bustling hours after breakfast. As such, he’d never witnessed story time. Some bright-voiced old elfwoman he’d seen but never met sat surrounded by a precious sea of Dalish children, sharing stories generations old. They were gathered ‘neath that great old tree, on the clear side where the table wasn’t. If Cole had cared to look again, he would notice that many of these eager little ears were from the City, maybe even recognize a few of them.

Single-minded, his eyes locked on the filthiest pair of ears in the clean-faced crowd.

 **_Da’enasal._ ** _He’s fine. Sheesh, he **really** needs a bath…_

Relief shot from his head clear through his toes. Pola was not far from him – Cole knelt beside the tree, out of sight for many but not all, and plucked a pebble from the ground beside his knee.

"’Your brother has abandoned you. He no longer loves you,’ said the other, named – “

The pebble struck the boy quite harmless on the head. Pola turned and made to shove the little girl behind him, she whined, Cole winced and shook his head, flailing his hands to get the boy’s attention.

Well, it worked. So much for sneaking.

“Misser **Rudderferd!”**

As Pola shoved that same poor girl out of the way and trampled several others, Cole robbed the _hahren_ of the rapt attention of the now-uproarious sea of giggling elfkits. It was best Cole couldn’t see the _hahren_ ’s face. Heedless of the fuss he’d caused, he snatched the smelly boy up in his hands and held him aloft in a sparkling shaft of sunshine to inspect his grubby face. Elgar promptly sat upon Cole’s foot, likewise stinky, likewise very much intact.

Cole was bewildered – _nothing,_ not a scratch, but then…A scar, a long one, fainter than faint, running clear across the toddler’s jaw. He almost thought he _dreamed_ the thing. More than one screeching child was hugging at Cole’s legs before he spoke, his drawling tone flat-eyed and suspicious.

 _“Da’enasalll?_ Did you go in my house alone?”

The pudgy boy shook his head, beseeching favor with two great big eyes like chocolate. Cole squinted just a little, _trying_ to look stern while his heart melted and trickled to his toes.

“I don’t believe you, little man. You _sure_ you didn’t cut your face?”

Denial again, and _hahren_ ’s wrath. The old woman’s barked authority snapped every Dalish bottom to the ground, sent the city children scurrying for the stream. Throughout the confrontation, every child was silent.

 ** _“_ Children.** Sit **down.**

 _“Mister_ Rutherford. I am well aware that Lady Lavellan is fond of you. It is an affront to Sylaise for human ears to hear these tales, let alone distract our children from their school.”

Cole bit back curt bile as he tucked the boy against his hip, channeling the grace that Merrill’s special brand of nagging robbed him of so easily. More and more, the chaperone of City Elves was growing to resent the Dalish.

 _“Ir abelas, hahren._ I didn’t realize. I meant no disrespect.”

“Your ignorance, while expected, is _completely_ unacceptable. The Grand Keeper will hear of this. Unhand that child at _once.”_

Cole did no such thing. He gave a pleasant smile, adjusting his grip on Pola’s bottom as the straddling scamp’s scraped knees squeezed Cole’s belly and his back. _“Ir abelas, hahren._ I can’t have my little man stinking like he’s rolled in halla droppings. Just tell Marli he’s with me.”

“Your little **_what?_** How _dare_ you!” When the old woman moved as if to stop him, Cole shot the _briefest_ glance. Something in his sky-hued eyes stayed her feet and hushed her tongue. As he turned his back to walk away, he took up a sing-song chant of _‘Bath time! Bath time!’_ as he bounced the boy against his hip. Pola parroted their ritualistic trill as the ragtag pair disappeared around the tree, placid guard dog faithfully in tow.

\---

Cole’s tub was deep. As such, his guarding hands refused to leave the child. He rushed through the motions of washing Pola’s grimy little body, the daggers on his bed burning an olive-hued fixed point in his lovesick mind. Though his sleeves were rolled up high above his elbows, still they sopped. His kneeling knees were likewise wet from Pola’s playful splashing. Water seeping ‘cross the floor reanimated blood, carried it dilute and drifting clear beneath Cole’s bed to drip between the boards; it would be harrowing to clean.

The floor would not be _half_ as awful as the tub. The boy was absolutely _filthy,_ so much so Cole’s bar of scented soap was irreparably soiled, his water going brown.

“Hold _still,_ little man! Your _ears_ are - ”

**_“NO!”_ **

An awful day so far. His floor a mess, his _tub_ a mess, the child a screaming, splashing beast - Most young men would lose their nerve and scold the boy. Set their jaws perhaps, cast their eyes up towards the heavens at the _very_ least. Cole merely screwed his mouth with a playful grin and plunged his arm into the tub to terrorize the spoiled child’s little toes. Pola’s screeching laughter perked Elgar’s floppy left ear.

Throughout his bath, the elfkit tried to snatch the kerchief from Cole’s face. More than once, his little nails scratched Cole’s stubbled chin.

“No, Pola – Hup! Nope! Quit that, _da’enasal._ I’ve got germs.”

Pola didn’t know what germs were, and he didn’t seem to care.

Just as he snatched Pola up to stand him dripping on his stool and briskly rub him dry with a towel four times too big, Cole heard timid knocking at his door. His heart skipped a beat, strong hands held the giggling child still as he looked over his shoulder, calling invitation with inflection most hopeful at the end.

“Come in?”

It wasn't her.

Shady mid-morning light spilled through Cole’s front door as Marli entered. When she saw Cole’s clothes and home all dripping wet and muddy while her son was sparkling clean, she put her hand over her heart and smiled. She was blushing, she looked nervous. He saw her soles were black with soot. His wet floor promptly took those particles to mottle with the rest.

“Mamae!”

“ _Aneth ara,_ Marli. You’ve been praying for your husband. _Ir abelas, falon.”_ Blue eyes shared a caring gaze before the squirming child reclaimed their attention. After one last tousling, Cole wrapped Pola in the towel and made to pluck him from the stool, anxious to hand his treasure over and move forward with his day.

“ _Aneth ara,_ Mister Rutherford. We’ve missed you. Hahren Ishmai told me you pulled Pola out of story time and sent for me. That was…very brave.”

He hadn’t _sent_ for her, exactly. “Brave...? Why? _Hahren_ wasn't **that** scary. He was _filthy._ ”

“Yecchy, Mamae!”

 _“Da’enasal,_ I don’t think yecchy is a word.”

With that, Cole turned around to face his friend. His chin pulled back a bit to find how _close_ she was. Her face was strange, and he wasn’t certain _why_ she whispered.

“Mister Rutherford. The Grand Keeper will be _furious_ with us.”

“Thal’s not _that_ mean, Marli. It was just a bath. I’m sure Pola'll hear that story loads of times.”

Cole’s free hand reached up to brush a sticking steam-damp tendril from his forehead. At his nudge, Marli took the boy. Just as absently, she set him down beside the dog. When Cole gulped and moved to snatch his razor from the floor beneath his mirror, her fingers on his tattered sleeve restrained him and he straightened once again. As her eyes searched his, his brow went tight with worry.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“Not anymore. You make a lovely father, Cole.”

His real name whispered on her lips felt odd enough without the kiss. Marli thrust herself against his sopping frame and pressed his kerchief with her mouth while her _son,_ whose father gave his life in battle at Cole’s side two petty months ago, sat staring at them both while he yanked on Elgar's stubby tail. Cole’s legs went dead, his eyes shot wide in terror.

He’d never kissed a woman tall enough to take her toes and find his mouth, he’d never _thought_ about it. The struggle for control turned his stomach upside down. Even as her fingers sought to knit in his damp hair and rob him of his makeshift mask, Cole’s swift hands clamped Marli’s arms and pried her off. He spat his gut reaction at her pretty face, incredulous and gaping. “What is _wrong_ with you?! The – the bad clothes are over _there,_ they shouldn’t – I have _germs._ Are you _nuts?!”_

Cole’s harsh tone set Pola crying at their feet, and Marli’s own tears sprang to being before he finished. “But _Cole,_ I-…I thought you loved me. The way you _look_ at me, the way you treat my son… _Every_ morning, you-…”

The kerchief hid Cole’s slack-jawed shock. Though rendered speechless, his eyes spelled out his feelings clear enough.

Mortally embarrassed and feeling quite betrayed, Marli snatched her wailing child up in her arms and stormed out of Cole’s now-muddy house to leave him gaping by himself. _**SLAM!**_ He felt a surge of guilt as he watched the sobbing widow disappear. He rushed his door and threw it open once again, shouting at her back as she trudged towards Mercy’s Table and her camp. Only Elgar paid the courtesy of looking back.

“Marli, _wait._ It isn’t - _Marli!”_

**_“Leave me alone, shem! Keep your hands off my son!”_ **

Passersby, of _course._ When the small group of Dalish elves walking past his home in the opposite direction looked down their elven noses at him like a misplaced pile of Elgar’s shite, Cole nearly lost it.

He stepped inside, he slammed his door, he punched it _hard_ and let his forehead follow. He seethed, he snarled, he felt sick in his belly and his throat. He ached all over. He _woke_ with Norah being nasty. His _clothes_ were cursed. He’d argued himself hoarse _all_ morning long, just to turn around and fight some prude old _hahren_. His pristine home was slicked with wet and blood and soot and really, honestly, that _did_ smell like halla droppings. In one instant, he’d lost the right to love the child he snatched straight out of burning hell, forced to give him up to an incompetent albeit arguably well-meaning mother who now hollered misplaced accusations at his person in broad daylight after forcing him to take a kiss he never wanted.

His bloodshot eyes slid open to stare dumbly at the woodgrain ‘neath his forehead. As he pushed off and stalked to grab the present from his bed, he vowed that _nothing_ else would interrupt his day.

Let the world piss down his neck and trash his little house. Once she pressed her face against his chest and smiled, nothing else would matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lovely piece of art to share with you, courtesy of Karini.
> 
> I sound all prim and proper, that's not wholly accurate. Let me try again:
> 
> I LOVE [THIS PICTURE OF VEYLA](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Veyla-Lavellan-519612640) SO MUCH IT MAKES ME WANT TO BE DEAD. LOOK AT IT. **LOOK. AT. IT.**


	30. I Don't Want You to be Dalish Anymore

_Draw. Loose. Thud._ Arrows rattl’ng in a nearly-empty quiver. Rattling because she’s touching them, nimble digits fishing without looking, lissome body clinging to a rigid posture she was  _never_  meant to keep.

The sound of Veyla practicing turned Cole’s pounding blood to pudding. With each approaching step surroundings blurred intangible. Every twig and blade of grass his visage held became a glowing haze that shimmered with salvation.

Time stopped, but still it took too long. There she was, at  _last_ , her petite silhouette framed in lustrous white. As he stood unperceived and marveled at her back, Cole thought how funny things could be beyond the Veil – though blind to all the rest his mortal eyes could still see Veyla’s spirit clear as day, more crystalline and pure than any he remembered. It shone in every hair that donned her tousled head, it left fractal fragments swirling ‘round the clothes she wore and everything she touched.

Today, sneaking up on her was easy. Her determined mind was shrouded in the depths of concentration. She’d found her arrow, she was drawing back a waxen string against her face. From behind he watched her still and slender hips, her quick feet glued aground – _unnatural,_ offensive to her essence, this practicing paralysis. Only Cole could see the truth: though a god had willed it so, the farce of archery would never take.

Her balletic soul was meant to  _flow,_ not stand. Today he’d teach his sprightly princess how to end a dozen lives while dancing. Though poetic, and though born of loving admiration, Cole’s intent in this was far from selfless.

In spite of immobility, she was every  _bit_ as lovely as her portrait in his pining mind. Infatuated eyes went roving up and down her elfin frame, as they often did when spying too long on Veyla’s pretty practice. Even as his face went soft with longing, a wave of acid from his empty stomach bore terror and self-loathing up his scratchy throat. The emotions twisting in his gut set Cole’s wide mouth a’scowling.

_“It doesn’t hurt, you’ll see. If I’m not scared, you shouldn’t be.”_

His mindful hand drifted to his covered cheek, he took a breath and let it out.

 **_Stop._ ** _You have to stop._

He  _promised_  Veyla he would work on this. He did, when he remembered. Sometimes, like the night he sat and sketched her gentle curves in Brishen’s shop, Cole would work himself into a state of fretful self-contempt most inconsolable. It was easy, oh so  _easy_ to show others their own goodness. Turning that same empathetic spyglass on himself was more than daunting.

Veyla didn’t know it, but she’d done herself a favor when she snatched his Emissary stone and drove Cole knee-deep into screaming rage. He’d never felt so  _furious_  at her, he didn’t know he  _could_. Though it cost her weeks of bashful kisses, that night Veyla won the war. Cole’s pensive eyes would lay awake and roam the ceiling o’er his bed in Castle Denerim every dawn for  _days._ Outraged as he was, he felt certain on reflection that  _even if_  she’d thrown his treasure in the river, he could  **never**  strike his Pretty girl. A wave of nausea clutched him at the very  _notion._

Maybe, then, just  _maybe,_ heredity had not granted Compassion a monster’s borrowed hands. Still, his mind was leery – there were so many human eccentricities he simply  _couldn’t_ help. Ruefully, he sometimes wished that Cole had been a dwarf.  _Race has nothing to do with the preferences of a body’s pleasure.  We are all unique._

Life strove to re-confirm. Just today, when he shouted himself doubly hoarse at Merrill for standing in his way, he had no desire to injure her. Instead, good nature bade him laugh at his own absurd reflection in Varric’s dressing mirror.

Pieces were still missing. Of that much, Cole was sure.  _Summer’s Bliss_  or no, his muddled heart was ill-equipped to set making love apart from doing harm. The words he’d read on virginal anatomy and pain – Cole could never  **do** that,  _especially_ to  **her.**  Then there was the whimpering, the screams, their  _minds_. Frenetic chaos, panic, lost control. A spirit’s observations colored by his one-time valid phobia, now totally defunct: to lose control would corrupt him to abomination, bringing utter ruination to the things he used to love.

So, then. How could he dare to want her as he did? How could he  _dare?_

 _I’m a monster._ **_No,_ **_I’m not. It’s part of love, it’s part of love. Varric says it’s part of love, it doesn’t go away. Solas says a dabble in the gray will keep me interesting._

One good talk with either tutor surely would assuage these lingering woes, if the gentleman in Cole had not marked this topic as one cardinally private. As such, the aspiring lovebird eked out his own nascent sexuality one smidgen at a time like a flustered blind man with a poorly-drafted map. Along the way, he took his comforts where he could.

 _She wasn’t scared. She_ **_laughed,_ **_because she_   ** _liked_ **_it. If I lost control and tried to hurt her, Solas and her brother_   ** _would_ ** _d_ _estroy me._

And so, with time and work, when desire for Veyla’s smile and all the rest of her came blooming in his flesh at night, Cole found his timid hand was less and less reluctant, his pleasure less and less a fright. He no longer bit his knuckles ‘til they bled, though bite he did, and still his skin rushed crimson from his cheeks down past his nipples.

Though his fears were far from conquered, Cole could feel his progress adding up. He was certain teaching Veyla how to murder like a ghost would help; one rushed lecture on the slitting of his throat relaxed his anxious mind by  _leagues,_ paying out rewards far sweeter than he’d ever dreamed.

She laughed, because she  _liked_ it. And that was just one dagger. Just one lesson, just  _one_  kiss. Imagine what a bundle-full could do? Though the back forty of his mind was mortified with over-cultivated shame, the ever-wanting rest of him shone ripe and determined.

Emboldened by the mem’ry of her mouth upon his neck, the tormented bystander remembered how to move. He slunk behind his concentrating sylph, dropped her deadly present to the ground beside his feet, sank with jerking breath down to his knees and bowed to squeeze her cherished back against his face. He was deaf to Veyla’s cry of shock, deaf to how her misfired bowstring smacked her inner sleeve and made her yelp. As he breathed her in and sighed her name against her spine, Cole’s bones went tallowy. His eyes rolled back and sank like a halestone-chasing burnout languishing in one of Dark Town’s seedy alleyways, and the wrought-iron shackles of his awful day became a chain of daisies.

\---

Lithe arms surged around her belly, overlapping generous and lean. She knew him by the near-transparent hairs that glinted in the light, rare forearm sinew bared by soggy, rolled-up sleeves. After the initial shock she threw Aaran’s bow like garbage, twisting in Cole’s vising arms to squeeze his tangled head against her suddenly constricted chest.

For two straight sleepless nights of hypothetical rehearsal, Veyla nursed her rage. She swore up and  _down_ that she’d stay angry, that she’d punish him so  _savagely_  he’d either run for good or never leave her side again. But now, the way he sighed and shuddered with relief at Veyla’s touch, the way his fingers clenched her too-big tunic while his forehead nuzzled ‘gainst her chest, the Dread Wolf’s slighted daughter lost her taste for vengeance. With every sentence olive eyes went squintier, and the endless arms around her body squeezed her tighter. His muffled answers rumbling just between her breasts made Veyla’s cheeks go rosy. She longed to kiss him, even though he stunk like watery shite.

“You’re such a jerk.”

“I know.”

“You left without –“

“M’sorry, Pretty girl.”

Of a sudden, she was shrill. “You’re  _ **sorry?**_ Cole, you didn’t even  _ **visit**_ me!”

She’d been hiding her unhappy tears for days: Over Solas, over Una, over Aaran and the doe. From the endless blistered pain of nearly  **fruitless**  practicing – not one whimpering peep.

Triumph over petty pity-seeking be damned. This was _different._ Forsaking the admonishment Veyla hankered to dispense against this man who kissed and ran, her worn-out heart sent sorrows gushing by the bucketful into his trusted arms instead.

Cole shushed to soothe, he hustled to his feet and yanked her face against his clammy, tattered shirt. As he caressed her back, his fingers seemed to note the hills and valleys of her spine.

“I wanted to, I  **wanted** to. _Oh_ Pretty,  _please_  don’t cry! I  _love_  you. I love you all the time! I was sick, it wouldn’t – ”

“You  **hurt** me all the time! You kept Solas a secret, you saw Una and you didn’t  _tell_ me! You ran away from kissing me ‘cause you got scared again, and then you  **left**  me in this  _ **stupid**_ place!”

He cringed with anguish high above her, one finger yanked the kerchief from his nose. It was awkward, the way Cole stooped to press his mouth against her forehead. She would be  _much_  easier to lift if the aspiring gentleman weren’t so hell-bent on chastity of touch. As his limber knees went bandy at her sides he guided Veyla’s face to tilt, his free arm hoisting ‘round her sob-racked middle. As his lips pressed with loud and feverish repeating on her balmy skin, he fretted secretly at germs.

Of course, he hung upon the words that stung them both the most. For the rest of it, for  _now,_ she let him off the hook. He would stop and shake his head most adamant as he explained, get a sentence in and start the kisses all afresh. Just as well his explanation took a while – her heart had several buckets full of teardrops left to spill.

“No-no-no. You’re  _ **wonderful,**_ you tasted just like sunshine. I  _wasn’t_ scared like that _._ We can’t let Thalis  **see**  us, Pretty!”

“You’re  _always_ scared of Thalis.  **That’s**  why you don’t want to take me with you.  **That's** why you leave me here.”

Spoken seething through her teeth. She glowered at his collarbones as she received his endless pecking comforts, her face all tight and squinty. Lungs that sobbed before were huffy now.

Cole’s lips left her forehead, he took his knees again. Without thinking he was squishing Veyla’s cheeks between his hands, his urgent visage pleading for her faith. She already noticed he was stinky, but only then did Veyla realize how terrible he  _looked._  His eyes were red and sunken, although he wasn’t crying. The skin around his nose was dry, his entire face was ashen, his left temple smeared with filth. Though Veyla loved his prickly stubble, even hinting at her longing for a beard to tug, Cole  _never_ went three days without a shave. And those shabby  _clothes?_ She’d never seen them. Though many knew those hand-stitched tatters as his second skin, to  _her_  they were an absolute affront to Cole’s bespoken tastes.

When he spoke, he sounded like a frog. She’d been too upset before to notice.

“Veyla. You  _know_  I want you with me. Don’t you remember? Solas told me no. Not until you’re – ”

Before he said another word, she shoved his chest and tore herself away. She marched to snatch up Aaran’s longbow and whip its’ body ‘gainst the nearest tree. Vibrating ironbark made Veyla’s bones and teeth go jittery. She didn’t care – as she howled with rage at the stymie of her shortcomings, she walloped ‘til her marrow screamed with needling pain. For this, her heart desired no comfort. Somehow, he could tell. Cole merely stayed his kneeling ground and watched, enraptured by her soul’s unbridled passion. She was screaming Dalish curses even Solas didn’t know.

Only  _after_ throwing down the bow,  _after_ snatching every unfired arrow from her rival’s borrowed quiver to snap them bruising o’er her knee, did frenzied Veyla deign to spit and speak.

“I  **hate**  him! He’s so  **stupid!”**

She was screeching. He was quiet, thoughtful. “Don’t say that. He loves you and he wants you safe. I do, too.”

“I don’t  **need** it! I’ve been fine alone for my whole  **stupid** life! I hate arrows.  **I hate them!**  I’ll be  **dead**  before he lets me leave!”

“Too much time, too many steps. Wood sticks to teeth and fingers like Fereldan pocket taffy. He wants your blood to act like his. I watch, it doesn’t work. Up there, down here – He wants you too still. You’re supposed to move.”

When Cole began his hushed soothsaying recital, she dropped her fit like coals. Her sharp ears pricked and hung on every word. Something in his tone made Veyla whip around to find him staring with intensity that startled her, a pale-eyed phantom smirking with a fiendish proposition that she didn’t understand. He was crouching with his arm splayed o’er his knee, his wrist relaxed, middle finger picking idly at a hangnail on his thumb. When he spoke the ringing in her ears went mute, her feet crept closer as though summoned by a satyr.

“You  _watch_ me? When?”

“Sometimes, Pretty girl. I always say hello. Why always a bow?”

“What?”

”It never works.”

She tried to sound defensive, but she couldn’t. Her words rang hollow in her head. “It does  _too_ work. I practice every day. I’m getting better.”

She watched his head tilt slow and deep. His eyes ghosted to her bale-backed practice target and then back again. His contradicting eyebrow arched so gradual and sharp, she would’ve slapped his dirty face if she weren’t hopelessly entranced. Lock-eyed silence reigned before he asked again.

“Why always a bow?”

Vexation brought her impatient attitude a’blossoming through her enamored daze.

 _“Ugh,_ ** _because._** I have to bow hunt.”

“You don’t. I don’t, Varric doesn’t.”

“I’m  **Dalish,** Cole. It’s different. I don’t have a  _choice.”_

“’To narrow options is a very mortal way to manage life.’”

Veyla did not recognize her father’s teachings on his tongue; Cole’s instruction and her own were  _vastly_  different. She pulled a face, she took a breath to question him and call him stupid. Before she could speak, the assassin’s idle hands began to move.

His piercing gaze remained upon her face. Veyla dropped her eyes to watch the heretofore unnoticed cylinder of blackest leather at his feet, bound ‘round the middle like a bedroll. The thing was shorter, fatter than a quiver. Cole’s deft fingers freed the ties and gave the supple scroll a flick. Unfurling fatal beauty brought her to her knees; she couldn’t touch them fast enough. She ran her rippling fingers over every one of them, slaying steel as smooth and frigid as his ghosting touch. Meticulous simplicity, metal matte and flawless. Layman that she was, Veyla knew without a word: These were the finest weapons she had ever seen.

When she hooked a brazen finger through a handle-hoop her deadly tool debuted with sliding grace, becoming an immediate extension of her will. Without hesitation, she twirled the whistling blade and caught it ‘gainst her palm. With her other hand, she drew out three at once to know the feel.  _Kismet._  Never in her life had any object felt so  _wholly_  right, so wholly  _hers._  Her face exploded with a thousand joys, and she began to squeal. As her empowered heart gamboled high above the clouds, she heard her self-appointed teacher speak.

“No more arrows. I don’t want you to be Dalish anymore.”

Gravity yanked her gaze to him like magnets, surprised but unafraid and unoffended. Cole’s possessive undertones made Veyla grin and tongue the inside of her cheek, sent a lifetime's worth of roguish fantasizes tumbling through her mind. Her eyes went saucy at the thrill, fingers fidgeting with her brand new favorite things. As she twiddled, metal tinkled in her hands.

Perhaps he'd kidnap her again.

“Oh yeah? What _do_ you want?”

She’d never asked him that before. When she saw the delicious feelings that went warring ‘cross his face, she decided she’d start asking all the time. His voice was softer. He no longer held her hypnotized with his intensity.

“I want to teach you to protect yourself. I can, I think.”

“What for?”

“…You said you wanted to come with me.”

“Yeah? You want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Why-y-y?”

“I-…because you’re my friend. Because you want to.”

At some point during their exchange, he found his feet. He was rocking now, blushing, chewing on his lower lip, a far cry from the somber ghost he’d been just words before. To his mettle’s credit, his gaze stayed glued to hers.

She jerked her chin up in the air, bare toes curling in the grass. The space between her eyebrows wrinkled with mischief as she stepped over her gift to squint daring up into his ardent eyes, her playful grinning nearly _wicked._ She stood a hair’s breadth away, their bodies barely out of contact. From here, though he was high above, her face could feel his breath. She heard his tummy grumble – Cole forgot his breakfast all the time. She’d force him to eat the apple from her lunch once she got her kiss.

“That’s it? You don’t want to kiss me?”

She longed to catch the nervous little titter in his throat and stash it in a box beneath her bed. He whispered something then, so stunted she was sure his mouth had never opened. She tossed the blades behind her and closed the tiny gap between their bodies, curling her fingers into his filthy old shirt. Her sharp chin came to rest in the center of his chest, and she began to giggle. Playful Veyla could not maintain such sultry mannerisms very long.

“I couldn’t _hear_ you, dummy! What’d you say?”

When he swallowed hard, her eyes darted o’er the bobbing apple in his throat. He was hoarse and raspy for a dozen reasons. As he spoke, he reached around his neck to pull his kerchief back up o’er his nose.

“I want to kiss you, but I can’t. Varric says my mouth will make you sick.”

She was pretty sure that _wasn’t_ what he said. Her suspicious eyes went flat, her chin stayed perched upon his chest. “Wha-a-a-at.”

“It’s a human thing. It goes away, but I can’t kiss you ‘til my voice is fixed.”

Before she could grouse and whine, Cole gently prised her hands out of his shirt and stepped away, gesturing to the blades at Veyla’s feet. As usual, his artful redirection seized her capricious attention flawlessly – she had one in her eager hand before he started speaking.

“Three weights, Pretty girl. Depends how close, how thick, how windy.”

Cole held out his hand, she gave him one. As he tossed the little knife above his hand to catch it by the tip, and then again to catch it by the handle, she grew so excited she could hardly stand it. For once, she listened to her teacher.

“Throw it how you like, different holds do different things.”

His glance off to the right was less than mild _._ His deadly arm struck like a snake. He whipped her knife across the glade so quickly, her heart jumped into her throat. And there it was, buried to retrieval loop dead center in the red. As he called after her with instructions full of laughter, she ran with keening glee to admire his handiwork and gloat in the paper target’s stupid face.

Fen’Harel would never get that girl to sit and read again.

\---

He stayed with her all morning into afternoon, munching grateful at her lunch as he sat beneath a tree and watched her dance and play at killing. Solas had her practice grounds far off most beaten paths, for obvious _projectile_ reasons – the happy pair was blissfully uninterrupted.

Once he taught her how to wrap her pretty little hands, Cole let her be to practice as she liked. He’d been too focused on instruction then to note the way she tensed when he hiked her sleeve. If he could read her mind, or if he’d seen the lash marks further up her slender arm, their afternoon would be _much_ different.

Veyla took to throwing knives like a school of fish to water. Anatomy, retrieval, stealth, precision - there would be time enough for details as she learned. He admired her scampering as she threw, no two grips or stances e’er the same. When he called to her and chucked his apple core into the air on a lark, she squinted, aimed, and missed. Her eyes became so crazed Cole couldn’t help but chuckle as she snatched the eaten fruit and tossed it back at him.

_“Do that again.”_

He did. He snatched an armful of apples from Chef’s kitchen and wore his shoulder sore to please her. Chasing fruit around the glade was making Cole’s thick head feel sick and dizzy, but he didn't care; his payment was her breathless laughter. He'd launch, he'd laugh, he'd watch. She'd squint, she'd aim, she'd loose. Veyla missed and missed and _missed,_ but she never lost her temper. 

She was several dozen misses in before the squinting hit him like Varric's armored sole across his ass.

Later, everyone would take a breath to blame themselves. Fen’Harel had watched her aim and squint on numerous occasions; the Elvhen couldn't  _have_ imperfect senses. Cole didn’t know, but when she was a child her brother sought to guide her just the same, and so had Aaran. She squinted, even then, and neither of them noticed.

Cole plucked a bruising apple from the ground and called for her to stop. Long legs closed the space between them, her attention to her teacher rapt, his _doubly_ so. She was panting, she was laughing, she was flushed and drenched. For a moment, his mind dropped the concern at hand. He sucked at his own lips. If it weren’t for germs, Cole fancied, he would _love_ to lick the sweat that trickled down her fluttering throat.

The thought ran so deep in him, his shock at his own mind ran three beats late.

“Cole?”

He was already blushing. He started noticeably, eyes jerking up from the wet and blotchy skin that heaved beneath the open collar of her tunic. When he tried to look aloof, her wrinkling nose and smiling eyes assured him he was far too late. When guilt began to rise, he bit his lip to shut it out. Her lash-batting little giggle helped him relax and grin. Even Veyla's  _eyelashes_ were glistening with tiny beads of sweat.

He cleared his throat with gusto, saying nothing in response. He bit a small chunk from the apple in his hand, dark skin yielding white beneath. His tongue guided the morsel ‘gainst the inside of his cheek to speak around it as he held the apple up for her inspection.

“See the white spot, Pretty?”

Romance fell back. She eyed him like he was crazy, an expression both of them were more than used to on her face. _“…Yes?_ **Weirdo.”**

He smirked, he chewed. Page 268 – a gentleman does not speak with his mouth full. Cole was only human; he forgot.

“Say when you can’t see it anymore.”

With that, he started walking backwards. His loving eyes stayed on her face. When she started squinting, he cooed at her to stop and kept retreating. Her face screwed up again, he chided her, she protested, he stilled. To himself, he was shocked at just how close to her he was.

“Close your eyes, silly girl. …Now, open them. No _squinting._ Can you see it?”

She shrugged and pointed at his hand. No self-pity, not a smidgen. She didn’t know any better. “I know where it is.”

His eyes went soft, his face purely astonished. He tossed the apple to the ground and came to her again, peering deep into her eyes as though he’d never looked at them before. His tone was blank with disbelief.

“But…you can steal from _Varric._ You can steal from **me**.”

She rolled the eyes he stared at. “You stole from me before, so what’s your _point?”_

“Pretty girl. Your pretty eyes don’t **work**.”

She refused to listen, ‘til Cole tossed the bitten apple in her hand and walked clear across the glade, swearing up and down that he **could** see the white. Teacher wagged his finger, sent her _straight_ to camp, sent himself to clean his house and have a bath. Yes, he conceded, the smell _was_ halla doo. Why didn’t Veyla _tell_ him it was smeared across his face? 

Yes, he'd be at dinner. Yes, he'd sit with her and Una. Yes, he promised. He loved her too.

Within the hour, her penitent brother put an end to Veyla’s lifelong squinting with a gentle tap. As Thalis watched his sister go crowing and cavorting through His People’s sober grounds and heard her screaming about leaves and blades of grass, he wondered how much trouble she’d get into with those brand new eyes of hers. She was bad enough _before._

That night, Chef's flying apples didn't stand a chance.


	31. The Blooming Rose*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Short, teaser-y chapter. Not as much time this weekend as I'd prefer!

After three long days and nights of toiling in the Fade, Solas woke himself with groggy groaning, hips rocking of their own accord. He twitched awake beneath their little tree with his robes bunched up around his waist, his lady sweetly bowing o’er his body from the side. He took an elbow to look down, half-sleeping eyes a’flutter. Her golden hair, a’glow with early morning sun, cascaded ‘gainst his belly and obscured his view of her slow-bobbing labor.

Her tongue was hot. Five fingers kept a grip that slid with wetness from her loving mouth, five more fondled dotingly. He scooped her hair aside to have a look, brushing his fingertips behind her ear. As he marveled at his rigid presence disappearing in her throat, he moaned her name quite handsomely and told her that he’d missed her _very_ much. As his appreciative fingers curled in her silken tresses to guide the rhythm of her neck, his head and eyes rolled back toward the grassy bank beneath.

When he came, and quickly so, his fingers tightened in her hair, his hips shoved so deep with urgency her nose brushed against his groin. The rough handling set her squirming with desire at his side. She was fully clothed – that would _not_ do. When she swallowed his bittersweet release and climbed his body for a kiss, the basking god sent his roving hands to snatch her billowing robe.

He grunted with displeasure when she stopped him. At Una’s purring words, Fen’Harel’s love-lidded eyes went narrow underneath her.

“Not now, _vhenan._ I need to ask a favor.”

\---

_Fenedhis, asha. The things you make me do._

Solas watched Cole’s black-booted footsteps hesitate before the ornately painted stoop. He was dressed head to toe in his black leathers today, his uniform forsaken. This irritated Solas, for he would have his lady's Emissaries dress the part.

“Make haste, Cole. I would not have this take all day.”

Fen'Harel resented being manipulated; he was every bit as grumpy as he sounded. His dearth of words spared the young man a line of questions regarding his intentions with The Dread Wolf’s cherished daughter, at the very least.

“Solas, wait. This is…”

“ _The Blooming Rose_ appears to be a brothel. You are surprised, I take it?”

“It…can’t be right.”

“The signage is correct. The barkeep’s directions were unmistakable.”

“He _wouldn’t._ Can we-…maybe around the corner? Maybe it’s a flower lady?”

An uncommon, exasperated sigh. “Shattering though the truth may be, I believe you know that Varric is _not_ taking breakfast with a posy vendor.”

The spirit-hearted gentleman stood fidgeting upon the doorstep. Toes curling in his boots, he turned around to face his one-time tutor, eyes beseeching from beneath the shaded brim of his reclaimed hat. Cole whispered, desperate. “I can’t do this, I can't be here. Will you…”

Teacher was unmoved. “Abandoning this farce of yours would please me greatly. Shall I go home?”

Cole shook his head with feverish insistence. 

“Then **I** will wait out here, young man, and **you** will fetch him. I cannot abide a brothel. Be quick. It is early yet, I doubt the place is crowded.”

As Solas watched his miserable young friend go slinking after Varric in a whorehouse, his bested mind tipped a begrudging hat to his duplicitous new mate and her sweetly wicked mouth. 


	32. Don't Eat the Chocolate

Where Brishen’s entry bell was clangy, this lot sweetly tinkled. A wavering inhalation, a sturdy steeling breath expelled. By the time he eased the door of powder pink to close behind him, Cole’s countenance was set, his nerves restrained. There was no coolness to the way he braced for battle; His eyes took on a calculating sharpness ‘neath his hat, his unused voice dropped down an octave in his chest. The left corner of his mouth assumed an ugly downward slant.

Morning sun lit Cole’s back, spilling through the skinny window in the door – one could see Solas grousing near the entrance with arms folded ‘cross his chest, if one cared to look.

Cole was standing in an empty anteroom, the wallpaper a ne’er-repeating scene of perching birds and flowers on a background of plush-looking cream. To his left, a place for coats and hats and shoes. To his right, a curved Orlesian sofa and a table with four straight-backed chairs, their woodwork most ornate. Four elegant tea settings sat in gilded wait. Were Cole at ease, his emergent genteel tastes would be delighted.

The room assessed, he moved to delve into the place and draw out his friend. He headed for the beaded curtain ‘cross the room, steps silent on the yielding crimson pile. When he heard a woman’s anklet chinkle with approach, every fiber of his being hummed with poise. She beat him to the curtain, glass beads chiming chipper as her lively voice.

“Good morning! Here to pray? Oh – “

\---

It was an unusual time for customers, even those who came for prayer. The Madam herself was still at breakfast. Most everyone else was still asleep; of course, they all worked quite late. Bernadette had always been an early riser.

She was carrying a silver tray of dainty chocolate candies. She’d burst through the clamoring cascade and was still holding it aside one-handed, her smile bright and cheery. She pulled back _just_ a tad, though, on beholding the unexpected visitor’s intensity. Tiny woman that she was, the lady with the chocolate curls found this towering, scowling stranger quite a sight. Of course, she’d seen _much_ worse and ne’er batted an eye; if he’d come in the evening, she would not have missed a beat. Even early birds are sometimes scattered in the hours surrounding breakfast.

Even as she faltered, the budding courtesan’s experienced mind began to peg her quarry. Orlesian – _very_ Orlesian. Hair so fair she hardly saw his eyebrows in the shadow ‘neath his silly hat. Nervous – _very_ nervous. Even assassins, which this man _clearly_ was, weren’t typically so prickly in a bordello. This one looked as though he half expected _her_ to throw a knife.

Newcomers to _The Blooming Rose_ showed up anxious for three common reasons. Not a bad-looking man, if scrutiny forgave the faded blemishes that marked his cheek – not disfigured, then, not nervous out of shame. The gloves would hide a wedding ring; _young_ husbands rarely came, _no_ husbands in the morning.

He was young, as young as she. A virgin, then. She had his number in a second. Bernadette would have him comfortable in seven measly beats.

She took a breath to talk, she held the tray up with a charming smile and began to move. Before she could redeem her fumble, he began to speak. His gravelly timbre did little to soften his demeanor’s edge.

“Varric. Is he here?”

Her footsteps stilled; that question changed her mind. Her guard went up, evident in the softening of her smile. It would not be the first time the Davri family sent a hired hand to grill the Madam of _The Blooming Rose_ on the whereabouts of Kirkwall’s mischief-making deshyr.

It **would** be the first time she’d seen an assassin hunt his mark by walking through the door and simply…asking.

She needed more information. She curtsied prettily as she spoke, still balancing the glinting tray. Bernadette was never _frightened_ of men, but her eyes certainly stayed on him. “Sir, you may call me Bernadette. You’re looking for a man named Varric?”

“Bernadette.”

Imagine her surprise when the mysterious young gentleman removed his hat to hold the thing behind his back, returning her gesture with the most courtly bow she’d ever had the privilege of receiving. His leathers knew his ways so intimately, they barely whispered when he moved. The space between them was too wide for her to seek a hand-kiss; she absently wondered if he would oblige, if offered.

When he straightened, he reassumed his headgear. Refinement and her name relaxed the man, it seemed – his scowl was gone, at least. He did not give _his_ name. Bernadette was not permitted to ask after it; most folks gave false names, anyway.

“Yes, a dwarf. He’s my friend. Corff says he…” A pause, his tone reluctant and a wee bit miserable. “Corff says my friend eats breakfast here.”

 _If he is an actor, he’s a good one._ She glowed at him with a brief laugh, she took a step to offer up the tray. “I see! Have a prayer and make yourself at home! I’ll just nip away and ask.”

His eyebrows said: _A **prayer?** Huh? _His eyes, which only now made full contact with her own, fell to the pretty little tray. He plucked one rose-stamped chocolate rectangle up from its doily, eyed the thing, eyed her some more. When she pulled out the chair nearest him and gestured for him to sit, he paid her a bewildered _“Thank you_?” and complied.

She smiled disarmingly once more, almost wondering if she should mention – No, she didn’t think so. The Madam _strictly_ forbade everyone to give it words. The beaded curtain sang of sprinkles as she left.

\---

“C’mon, now. Don’t be fussy. You sound just like my mother!”

“I don’t love you half as much. Get your filthy socks _off_ my furniture, Master Tethras.”

“I’ll have you know, Madam, I wash these socks every week.”

Varric’s arches were firmly parked on the most exclusive brunch table in Kirkwall, perhaps in all of Thedas. He gave defiant toes a wiggle as he sighed with a belly full of classy fare. He scratched the razor-sharp stubble on his chin, stifling a yawn as he idly eyeballed Lusine’s china cabinet.

_Ate **way** too much. Like always, Ma’. _

Varric truly did take breakfast at Lusine’s most mornings – two of Kirkwall’s greatest kingpins noshing eggs and talking shop. Occasionally, on mornings like this one, the deshyr brought a friend. Today, his friend was of a cautious mind.

“You’d better do as she says.”

“Sod off. Drink your juice.”

A mild shrug, snide commentary muttered o’er an ornate glass of sparkling crystal. “Suit yourself. A slave thinks twice before he mouths off to a woman in possession of a cast iron skillet.”

Varric’s eyes slid closed, he chuckled through another yawn. “A _slave,_ Broody? Don’t you mean ‘Hawke’s downtrodden kept man’?”

 ** _Snort!_** “Hawke doesn’t _own_ a pan.” _Sip._ “Lusine. The juice is off.”

“It’s fresh. You forgot to ruin it.” The Madam sent a half-full handle of vodka clapping down upon the tabletop from behind the elf’s shoulder, as if by magic. Varric’s ears knew that stoic little grunt as Fenris voicing pleasure. Without another word, his lushest friend popped the well-worn cork. Fenris carried on over the sound of sloshing liquor, picking up a conversation from earlier on.

“It’s not that we refuse, Varric. You’ve asked for stranger birthday favors. It just seems…cruel.”

“ _Nahhh._ You’d have to meet him. He’s – “

The gentlest tapping at the door; birds on windowpanes were noisier. The young woman’s voice was timid, fearing punishment for this, the gravest of intrusions. “Madam Lusine?”

Varric beamed from his precariously leaning vantage, eyes still closed, head cradled from the back in folded fingers. “Mornin’, Bernie girl! Get in here!”

When Bernadette came through her kitchen door, the Madam glared. “Young lady. I assume you have a _compelling_ reason for disturbing me?”

Fenris kept his trap shut and drank his (mostly-liquor) juice.

Bernadette curtsied; she would find no bowing gentlemen in Madam’s kitchen. “Beg your pardon, Ma’am. There’s an assassin downstairs, he’s asking after Varric. He claims to be a friend.”

Varric’s eyes came open like a lazy cat, and he turned his head to see the women at his right. The Madam arched a brow, shoving Varric’s elbow. “You told me you _quit_ that kalna woman. They're sending bastards after you again.”

Fenris snorted. “Hardly. The day he quits that woman…”

Bianca. Red lyrium took _everything_ from him, and she -… he hadn’t found forgiveness for her carelessness, wasn’t sure he _could._ She was holed up in her workshop in Orlais, and she hadn’t sent him word in months. For his part, neither had he.

Varric’s hand came over his heart, his face playfully pained to hide realities that panged his bloated guts and all the rest of him. For once, it was the truth. “ _Madam._ I’m shocked. Would I lie to you?”

All three of his companions answered plainly, “Yes.” Bernadette couldn’t help but laugh after chiming in. Varric rolled his eyes and shook his head with a hopeless sigh, seeming _quite_ beset upon to all the world.

Ah, he knew _that_ gait. When the Madam moved to storm downstairs and throw the bugger out, Varric raised his outstretched hand. “Now, hold on just a second.” Lusine sighed at him and moved to fuss at something on her kitchen counter.

“Bernie, what’s this guy look like?”

“He’s tall, blonde, dressed all in black. _Really_ uptight.”

A knowing chuckle. “Got an elf with him?”

Bernadette shook her head and answered no. Lusine interrupted flatly, nodding toward the window at her side. “There’s a bald-headed elf loitering out front. If these men are with _you_ , Varric, get them out of here before I do. It’s bad for business, that ugly man skulking outside my door.”

While Varric wheezed with laughter, Bernadette jerked her dainty chin, surprised. _“Bald?_ An elf?"

Fenris made a curious sound. He found his feet and peeked around the lacy curtain, staring down for just a tick. He then resumed his seat and topped his drink, took it up and gestured cheers to no one as he knocked back for the first bald elf he’d ever seen. He muttered: “Huh. Poor bastard.”

As Fenris carried on, Varric cupped his hands around his mouth to bellow: **“KID! ‘ZAT YOU?”**

Seconds ticked by; of course he’d hesitate. It was not like Cole to shout. His response was faint with stairs and walls and distance. (“…Varric? Isn’t this rude?”)

“Maker damn you, Varric Tethras! Stop shouting in my house!”

“C’mon now, Madam. Neither one of us has customers this early. **TEN MINUTES, KID! DON’T EAT THE CHOCOLATE!”**

(“Um!…O, okay!")

“Bernie, take the kid some tea and keep him company, will you? We’ll be down in a jiffy.”

Bernadette looked skeptical, even as the Madam snatched her silver tray and handed her a different one, dark wood with a miraculously piping pot of tea. The Madam’s hospitality was supernatural. As Bernadette moved to leave, she stopped and turned to face the room. “But Master Tethras – “

 _“Please,_ Bernie. Just Varric. Only _Madam_ calls me that, and she’s making fun of me. You know that, right?”

“How do you know _I’m_ not making fun of you?”

He wheezed and clutched his heart, tilting his head back on a limp neck. Fenris sighed, quite bored with the whole thing. Lusine had snatched his bottle away. Bernadette pressed her question on the dwarf.

“That man downstairs... Isn’t he dangerous?”

 _Guhfaw!_ “Not to _you,_ sweetie. I’d wager he’s more frightened of you than you are of him. If any customers come in, keep ‘em away from him – he doesn’t play so well with other boys. Almost broke Rork’s nose in my bar a couple nights ago.”

Bernadette looked wholly confused. Fenris snorted, as he nearly always did before he spoke. “Good. Rork’s an ass.”

“A very _wealthy_ ass, Broody,” Varric supplied.

The Madam shooed a stalling Bernadette out of the kitchen and shut the door. “Master Tethras, do not pretend that _your_ prosperity relies on custom. Your coin is old and tangled in the Merchant’s Guild.”

“You caught me, Madam. I only bought that bar to make you love me.”

One fingertip was all it took to send the reclining dwarf a’crashing to the floor. The noisy fall knocked the wind from him, he gasped and choked and laughed. His words were weak and gaspy. “Well I – _cough_ – I guess it isn’t working.”

Lusine was already busy with the dishes. “Nnnnope.”

Fenris laughed the way he always did; by slamming his glass repeatedly upon the table while he smirked and shook his head.

(“Varric?!”)

 _Sputter, chuckle, breathe._ **“I’m fine, Kid! Just eating breakfast!”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I don't go to church on Sunday  
>  I don't get on my knees to pray  
> I don't memorize the books of the Bible  
> 'Cause I got my own special way_
> 
> _Still, I know Jesus loves me  
>  I'd have to say, maybe just a little bit more  
> 'Cause I fall on my knees every Sunday  
> At Zerelda Lee's candy store_
> 
> _Well, it's got to be a[chocolate Jesus](https://youtu.be/6BYeoPpa7U0?t=13s)  
>  Make me feel so good inside  
> Got to be a chocolate Jesus  
> Keep me satisfied_


	33. A Fetching Pig Farmer°

“If I may, Your Majesty.”

Words to break a cycle of repeating thought, a king squeezing a shard of brittle sealing wax between his fingers as so many had before, willing it to roll when jagged edges flat refused. His forearms framed the scroll unrolled upon his stately desk and held fast with two paperweights, twin pewter silhouettes of his kingship’s heraldry. The basket full of pending missives was forgotten. He’d ordered the curtains drawn tight ‘gainst the sun he loved, electing to read o’er and o’er the numbers in this message as his eyes adjusted to the guttering torchlight.

The Landsmeet, which convened tomorrow, was harrowing when news was _good._ Today, King Alistair seemed to all the world a man who never heard or told a joke.

“You may.”

Oric’s voice came soft and sure. “I believe the Lady Lavellan is an honest woman. There must be some mistake. Perhaps – ”

His Majesty’s deep sigh may just as well have pulled the curtains from the wall, so forceful was his breath. He pinched the bridge between his eyes and closed them, he took hold of one paperweight and rocked it back and forth with clomping corners on his desk. His wavering voice was near exploding.

“You mean to say our census takers simply… _overlooked_ two hundred head. In Denerim _alone._ ”

“Your Majesty. She is the _Inquisitor.”_

His fist came slamming on the desk, so uncharacteristic his attendant flinched. He spat his words, he backhanded his goblet and sent it clanging to the floor.

“Maker damn you, Oric! Don’t you see? It doesn’t **matter!** She has **openly** defied Fereldan will! If she were requisitioning elves to send to **war,** to **die** and save their sorry hides, the nobles would be **_thrilled._** They’d slap a _bow_ on it!”

He shoved his chair and stood. He stormed to his window, tore the curtains down and kicked at them, slammed the glass wide open for a breath of air.

“Things such as they **are,** the Inquisitor’s deceit has tied my hands. If I do not denounce Lady Lavellan and terminate our alliance at tomorrow’s Landsmeet, I stand to be **deposed.** The Inquisition cannot _afford_ to lose our support. The Arls will petition me to demand Lady Lavellan’s resignation.”

“Can she…can she _do_ that?”

“The Inquisition is bigger than one woman, Oric. If she cares for Thedas, Lady Lavellan will have no choice.”

The truth made Alistair feel sick. He gripped the wall beside his window and stuck his head outside, idly entertaining the notion of jumping.

_Adalia, my sweet, I’ve changed my mind. You know, I think I’d make a **fetching** pig farmer._

\---

Though the air in Mercy’s Woods was mild and knew no season, for two hours surrounding breakfast Veyla’s treehouse grew _quite_ warm. Slowly shifting rainbows crept across her sunny room, refracted through the crystal leaves that made her ceiling. For this short time, her haven and the magpie’s horde within would glow afire with morning. Dorian’s ruby-eyed knights of alabaster, replaced and promptly stolen, would twinkle most divine upon her windowsill. The mask of blackest lacquer by her bed would gleam with smooth perfection ‘mongst an impressive trove of gifted trinkets.

More oft than not, she’d occupy herself with other things until the peeping sun moved on – She’d play across the river, walk with Solas, have a bath and wash her clothes. On _this_ sunny morning, Veyla stayed. She was laying on the floor with her back against the wall and her little shorts crumpled ‘round one ankle, thighs clamped tight together. Her body basked in private afterglow and shining light, her thoughts in sweet goodbye and fantasy.

The past two days had been a joyful paradise. Solas fast asleep to spare her wretched reading, Cole waiting, Cole teaching, Cole _staying._ They both rushed headlong through her crash course in swift killing, they stayed up late and talked so much his voice may _never_ heal. When they were alone together, his chaste hands never left the parts of her he deemed appropriate to touch. For her part, she hung against his upper arm like jewelry.

The memory, though measly hours old, felt like a hazy dream. Anxious as she’d been _before_ to speak with Fen’Harel, she hardly paid her father thought when his waking morning came. Cole left early, as they both knew he would – and, as he’d promised, a cracking pebble just beneath her window woke Veyla with the sun. In her rushing descent, she donned his hat with intent to return it at a price.

The air was chilled and barely lit, the grass beneath their feet was wet with dew. His breath smelled sweetly of the herby candies Una gave him for his throat – she’d fussed endless over him these past two days with mugs of soup and coddling hugs in front of everyone.

His clothes, a flawless replication of the journeying leathers Cole wore when first they met, were by _far_ Veyla’s favorite. No sooner did her bare feet hit the ground than her fingers found familiar belt loops, his cheeks prickling pink to her delight. His hands found her face beneath that billowing brim, guiding her to tilt enough that he could catch her eyes and smile at her. Her neck whined at their difference in height, but she was deaf to it. She gave his pants the gentlest leading tugs from side to side. As they swayed, their smiles ran deep and sheepish.

Longing and denial birthed a stretching, swinging silence. Eventually, she spoke.

“So he’s awake? You’re leaving?”

He nodded. His tongue rattled the hard candy ‘gainst his teeth before he answered, still a wee bit raspy.

“He’s angry, Pretty girl. I don’t have long.”

“Why’s he mad?”

“Me, I think. He’s mad I said he’d come, he’s mad it’s early.”

His eyes changed the subject when they flitted to his hat. One hand left her cheek to give the rim above her face a tug before he tucked his chin to reconnect his quiet gaze with hers. His flirty smile made her feet squirm, grass squeaking between her toes.

Her whisper was not as sultry as she’d hoped. Bashful croaking, more like. “Y’wanna borrow it?”

His eyebrows lifted in consideration. She watched gears working as he puzzled over ownership and what it meant to “borrow” something that was clearly his. She giggled short, she pressed her offer up at him. “You can borrow it today…if you _promise_ to come kiss me when your throat is better.”

To punctuate her offer, she pulled him closer by his pants. She didn’t meet resistance ‘til their bodies almost touched; at that his flowing hips engaged, gently denying her. He did not back away, nor did he lean closer. He _did_ pluck his hat from her, setting it atop his head with a gloating grin. She protested, reminding him he had to _promise_.

 “I promise, Pretty girl. _…I win._ ” He was grinning ear-to-ear, sounding _quite_ pleased with himself.

Her eyes went flat and playful, the way they always did. “What d’you _mean,_ you win?”

He took a sweeping step back, the better to bend down and whisper in her ear. When he came close, his hat swallowed them both to keep their secrets.

 _“Silly. I want to kiss you anyway. I told you that before. It’s like borrowing for free.”_ He took her hand and pressed it to his lips beside her face, his scented breath tickling her skin and all the rest of her. She went giddy and speechless ‘neath his shady brim, burying her face against his neck and squeezing tight with her free arm. She gave no thought to how _uncomfortable_ it must be, stooping as he did; at least as twangy as her neck felt, surely. He voiced no complaints as one arm pulled her ‘gainst his upper chest. The remainder of his whispering was muffled ‘gainst the little hand he clutched.

“Today is different. I don’t know when I’ll finish.”

Her insides washed with disappointment. She couldn’t _bear_ the thought of going without him again, not after he’d been here with her for days. She could practice, yes, but _gods,_ this place was _boring._ Dorian refused to take her _anywhere._ It was much more than missing Cole – she longed to see the world, to leave this whitewashed space and search for color. She begged his name against his neck, doing her best to nuzzle and be sweet.

“ _Coleee_ …Take me with you. It hurts, I _miss_ you.”

He mewled right back at her before his voice went stern. “I feel it too, Pretty. It’s worse than being hungry all the time. I want to keep you with me, but… **Not** Kirkwall. Never.”

He shook his head most adamant, she felt him shudder at the name. She _had_ noticed the dearth of stories regarding his experiences in Kirkwall. When she huffed against his neck, his throat made an unhappy little sound. He kissed her hand again, entreating. She loved how clearly difficult it was for Cole to tell her no.

“I _can’t._ I love you. You’re too clear and happy.”

She pulled back to look at him, her face went spoiled and bratty. It was no use - he wouldn’t budge. When he pressed his finger on her pouting bottom lip, she couldn’t help but grin and giggle at his touch. “Pretty girl, don’t look at me like that. I’ll be sad all day.”

At that, she gave up glaring and kissed his fingertip. She heard hard candy crunch between his anxious teeth as her closed mouth sucked gentle traction to his touch. Her lashes fluttered when he dragged his finger slowly down against her bottom lip, tugging just enough to part her lips before letting go. She found his eyes transfixed upon her mouth, and then on _her._ She stood stock still, and so did he. The ghost who’d insisted all through practice that he trained because of friendship whispered winded, his voice so soft her ears could barely read him.

 _“Veyla._ My mouth misses you. It… it _aches…”_

Voltaic as their vacillating courtship was, their eyes hadn’t shared a moment _this_ intense since the day he shot a glance of beseeching terror o’er his shoulder before he disappeared to fight his maiden battle as a mortal man. She basked beneath him, her eyes a mirror of his fervid longing. She sent her fingers curling where his jacket fastened ‘round his throat. He was chewing on his bottom lip, his eyebrows furrowed tight. She opened her mouth to say something, _anything_ to hold him to it _–_

When Solas cleared his throat mere feet behind them, the vibrant flower quivering in her belly snapped its petals shut. In Cole’s eyes, she watched _his_ shrivel up beneath a rock and die. As Solas spoke, Cole jerked away from her so quickly he nearly tripped himself. His tone dripped with irritated sarcasm, eyes fixed on his daughter’s blanching suitor like a hundred daggers.

“Ah, **_here_** you are. I am afraid you’ve been misled, young man. The human colloquialism _‘take a leak’_ means something else entirely.”

And then, a few dumb and fumbling moments later, the two of them were gone. Solas _did_ give her the briefest glance before they disappeared. Cole had not been exaggerating on her father’s mood; his face was positively bearish.

No matter. It was not her _father’s_ face that burned in Veyla’s mind and in-between her legs.

She sat naked ‘neath the waist and slouching ‘gainst the sunbathed wall with her knees high and wide, bare toes curling with delight upon the wooden floor. Sweat trickled down her neck to disappear beneath her tunic as she gasped and squirmed at her own touch beneath the blazing sun.

Today, she thought to watch herself. Light glinted on the floor between her feet, reflecting off the golden hand mirror Cole bought for her in Val Royeaux. What would be a simple pleasure to most women was beyond revelation to a Dalish girl who spent her life seeing her face in naught but rippling water. As she beheld the soft delight she’d always owned but never truly _seen,_ she felt as though she’d never touched herself before. For a time, until fantasy took hold of nimble hands, Veyla simply marveled.

As she slowly rubbed the spot that made her thighs go twitchy, she imagined Cole was touching her, _looking_ at her, seeing her this way and begging breathless at her beauty. She could still hear him whispering in her ear about how badly he _ached_ for her, she could see the longing in his eyes and feel his breath, she could hear him moaning down her throat as he pressed her hard against the dock boards ‘neath her back. She imagined how _he_ might look and feel, wondering if the things she’d seen while bathing with her people did a human’s body justice.

The lust that started thin ran thick and burning hot in the moments building up to ecstasy. Her thighs fought to clamp against her will and stop her rubbing circles at the apex of her sex, her breaths came quick and sharp. She sent one slender finger sinking in the heat, her imagination wild with thoughts of him. Though she’d touched herself so many times before, only since she fell in love did Veyla’s body long for fullness. Her body was so new to penetration that her own hand was naïve, innocent and artless. No beckoning, come-hither strokes; a probing fed by only instinct.

Still, this simple pleasure was _beyond_ enough. The sun grew hotter on her skin, her eyes burned with lack of blinking as she stared with fascination at her own reflection, the muscles in her tummy wound up tight enough to snap. She muttered his name as she watched her own arousal overflow and glisten. She moaned sweetly and she giggled, she asked him if he liked it and she _begged_ him not to stop. Do you like it? Do you _like_ it? Don’t stop. _Cole,_ don’t _sto – !_

Her breath caught as she came, she saw her body seize and clench. This feeling tripled in intensity when Veyla brought two hands to play, and oh, to **watch** it happen. Her voice rang high and stuck on _Eeee,_ her thighs finally won the fight and shuddered shut. At that, her jerking foot struck the mirror he’d given her and sent it clattering from its stand. The clamor only served to heighten her nirvana as she closed her eyes and rode the jolts that racked her body, oblivious to the fact that she was now curled up and spasming on her side, crushing her own hands between her legs.

There she fell and there she stayed, lolling wet and blissful in the passing sun while his pale blue eyes rang in her like a bell. No part of her was interested in reality; her love-stoned brain declared she’d stay _right_ here until Cole returned with her kisses. He’d climb the ladder to her room and find her lit up by the moon. He’d blush and call her pretty. Though he’d hesitate at first, he’d kiss her and he’d stay.

A voice calling from below jarred her so hard she hit her head against the wall.

“Veyla! Are you up there, you filthy little mongrel?” Softer, then, spoken to himself. “Fasta _vass,_ but these elf girls are difficult to find.”

She heard Dorian come rushing up her ladder as she rolled onto her back and scrambled madly to re-don her shorts, her heart racing faster than Cole _ever_ made it go. On contact, they were soaked and soggy. She barely had time to find her feet and toss a pillow o’er the slit-shaped dampness on the floor. The mirror stayed where it was.

When his dapper head popped up through the doorless portal in the center of her floor, she was standing dumb with terror beside her cluttered desk with nothing in her hands. Her cheeks were red as apples, her blood coursing so violently she could hardly hear him.

“Knock-knock! Ah, _there_ you are. Couldn’t answer me, could you? Too busy being a squirrel? Oh- _ho._ I swear I’ve seen _that_ face before.”

She piped up with squeaking denial, bouncing on her toes. “I wasn’t doing anything! I’m _studying!_ What do you **want!”**

He scoffed and clucked with laughter like a bothered chicken and parked his elbows on her floorboards, his bottom half perched easy on her ladder down below. “Of _course_ you are, dear heart.”

His eyes slid slow around the room, eager to tease.  “No boys under your bed? …I’m disappointed, actually. What _are_ you doing up here? Jumping jacks?”

Dodge though he might, the tome she hurled across the room caught Dorian full in the face. She swelled with pride at her aim while he cursed and held his nose. When she saw the somber expression he’d been hiding ‘neath his jibes, she _almost_ regretted smashing him. He rubbed his forehead as he sighed beneath her challenging glare, eyes sinking closed.

“Alright, _alright._ I need your help.”

 **_Dorian_ ** _is asking me for help._

She forgot her embarrassment, she forgot her soggy shorts. As she stalled with banter, the gears of her self-interests began to grind.

“With what? You need me to steal something?”

 _Chuh._ “No, funnily enough. Is thieving all you’re good for?”

“It’s all _you_ think I’m good for.”

He cleared his throat most haughtily, he gestured towards his newly purchased chess pieces a’glinting on her windowsill. Veyla gave her head a sassy jerk that spelled out ‘Yah, so _what?’_ and offered no apology. Dorian was left with no recourse but to slowly shake his head and roll his eyes.

She cut him off when he made to speak again, her words rushed and blurting.

“I’ll help you with whatever, but you owe me one.”

Dorian was so distracted with concern, he grunted in agreement and continued with his words. Whatever happened next, that little grunting nod was Veyla’s victory.

“Thalis is behaving strangely. I was hoping you would…I don’t know. Talk to him.”

Though they hardly spoke these days, that sentence yanked her heart across the room. “What’s he doing?”

“He isn’t speaking.”

Veyla rolled her eyes at _that_ complaint, so asymptomatic she could not deign to respond. Dorian sighed with frustration, clicking his tongue.

“No. He won’t speak to Lace, he won’t speak to _me.”_

“Miss Una was his teacher, he – “

“Difficult as you can be to find, young lady, _Miss Una_ is impossible.”


	34. Amias

It was his second tight-lipped day. There was nothing Thalis valued more than privacy, and nothing he had less of. That afternoon, when he walked the bank to reach the stretch of river where His People bathed, his feet carried him beyond his destination like a man possessed. He was numb to Aaran’s loveless glare as he picked his path midst the shore of scattered clothes to carry on.

As distance grew, their conversations petered out to nothing at his back. The river yawned quite wide and noisy here. Thalis bent the water to his frigid will, clear ice passing underfoot to pave his way towards the center of the river. He plucked the Veil, he stopped a span of rushing water in its tracks. In no time he lay just above the river's surface, supine upon an elf-sized frozen pillar anchored to the riverbed. Two particularly unfortunate young fish a’passing by were caught up in the column of ice.

He closed his eyes and lost his hearing ‘midst the rushing water ruckus that surrounded him. As it took his ears, he shut his eyes and willed the sound to take the rest of him. He was asleep when Veyla came.

\---

As the pair peered out from behind a tree, Dorian openly marveled at a sister’s intuition. He would never in a million _years_ have dreamed to find Thalis here. She explained her logic without looking, eyes fixed upon her older brother in repose. “Thal swims when he’s sad. When we were kids, sometimes he tried to drown. Miss Una never let him.”

Veyla stepped out toward the bank, oblivious to how her own plainspoken words left her companion visibly ill with sympathy. He called after the girl as she eyeballed Thal and waded several feet upstream, his voice strained with concern.

“Wait a moment! Hydromancy isn’t quite my – _Kaffas!”_

He stood and gawked with disbelief when Veyla disappeared beneath the rushing water. In no time at all he saw her scrabbling up the slippery glacial column, wet fingers digging in her brother’s robes to hoist.

\---

A deep sigh was the only scold he cared to pay the willful elfkit shivering on top of him. Though the silence only stretched for seconds, _da’lenlin_ would have none of it. She clutched his robes and perched straight-armed above him, squinting down into the face he cast aside to feign marveling at his cousins’ untamed bank.

“What’re you doing, brother?”

Nothing. She gave his robes a tug, she asked again. He answered her, the first he’d used his tongue in days.

“Resting.”

He heard little Veyla huffing through her nose. At that, she began to wait him out as only sister knew to do. Her fingers stayed white-knuckled in his robes, her eyes burned holes in his deflecting cheek.

Thalis always cracked beneath his sister’s will; he held out for a while with muttering, insisting he was fine, chiding at the child to go away. After several minutes of her glowering silence, brother’s sight began to blur with truth denied. His eyes snapped shut, she gave his chest a gentle shake. Where Lace and Dorian had hounded him all through yesterday and into dinner with no results, he caved to Veyla’s steadfast stare in minutes.

“I lost a child.”

He didn’t tell her all the rest.

There was no need to recount how the hysterical City Elf’s deep voice had cracked with pleading in the early morning. _“Mister Keeper Sir! My wife! **Please!”**_  Thal ran faster than he ever had, robes wicking ‘cross the shallow stream, a husband’s desperate panic lodged in his own throat like a shard of bone.

He wasn’t fast enough.

He knelt on the floor between the wailing woman’s legs, healing hands red past the wrists with the familiar stain of blood. The babe was strangled, limp and reddish-purple like a rabbit skinned and left to hang. He healed her birth-rent womb and body, but had naught but his own previously extinct sobs to spend against a bereaved mother’s broken heart. He sat and choked, he watched the couple clutch and mourn their lifeless child.

If he had but met this woman _once_ before and seen the way she carried. If he weren’t so busy listening to wrinkled _hahren_ wax dread fatidic on about the pale-headed _shem_ seducing widowed Dalish elves to steal their babes away, arguing with Aaran about when and whether they should leave _Namadahlan_ , advising fools who ought to know _full_ well the construction of an aravel –

With newfound bitterness Thalis stood outside himself and watched. He gave His People **all** of him, and _they_ were never satisfied. When his cousins came to seek his skills and nothing more, Thalis _failed_ them and **still,** the weeping parents _thanked_ him ‘midst the maelstrom of their tragedy.

Their relatives and friends, half-blooded elves he’d never met or seen, loved this nameless kneeling healer for the virtue of his bloody hands and dripping tears of loss. They clutched him in a tangle as they wept together freely. The baby’s name was Amias, one agonizing uncle shared.

When the mother begged him not to leave, he _stayed,_ of _course_ he stayed. While the midwife helped the sobbing mother wash and change, Thalis tended Amias with respectful ablutions. While no stranger to blood, Thalis had not _seen_ The Fall, though he saw the gore that slicked his would-be _shemlen_ brother. So talented was he, he rarely touched untimely death. He never would forget the way it felt to hold that cold and stiffening little body in his hands.

When the exhausted mother settled into her fresh linens, Thalis gently handed back her swaddled son. He knelt across the bed from her likewise exhausted husband, he stroked her hand and absolved the gentle thing of blame until his throat ran dry. When he cooled his palm with magic and held it to her clammy forehead, she thanked him so sincerely he began his tears anew.

Thalis told his sister none of this – he didn’t need to. At the phrase “I lost a child,” she squeezed him tight around his neck and didn’t let him go. His own voice sounded distant, hoarse. He was too numb to hug her back.

 _“Da’lenlin._ I don’t want to do this anymore.”

She didn't need to ask him what he meant; she knew. His eyes found Dorian fretting on the shoreline as his pragmatic little sister spoke. "So don't, Thal. We're grown up. No one can _make_ us do anything."

He looked up at his baby sister then, as if to sigh and argue reason. When, to his surprise, he found a woman staring back at him, he realized her every word was true.


	35. The Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas, beloved reader, for the unprecedented wait. Your author finds herself awash with work; she is adjusting. Two more chapters are expected by Easter.
> 
> And how are _you?_ As always, humble thanks for reading!  
>  \---

_He grunted with displeasure when she stopped him. At Una’s purring words, Fen’Harel’s love-lidded eyes went narrow underneath her._

_“Not now, vhenan. I need to ask a favor.”_

Their hands froze together on her thighs, her fingers sought to lace with his and found them unresponsive. She watched his gaze grow darker as her immortal lover paid audience to her request, his being awash in Una’s spilling sea of golden tresses.

When her words were finished, his own made no response. A firm four-fingered hand upon her shoulder guided her to take her knees and move away. Her green eyes followed as he curtly rose, they kept his back as Solas just as curtly crossed the grass to shed his august robes and don the lowly jumper draped across the armrest of his tufted chaise.

The air they shared jelled viscid with their mismatched tensions: hers of sex and his of deep offense. As he dressed, his silent mate observed from ‘neath their sapling willow tree. His every move was sharp with barely bridled outrage. From behind she watched her tight-lipped lover tuck himself into familiar world-worn trousers, saw his shoulders jerk with cinching belted leather. One deft finger fetched the ne’er doffed thong from underneath the high-backed collar of his fur-lined jerkin. She watched him lay the strapping flat across his shoulders, centering the fabled fetish low upon his chest without looking.

The intimacy of Fen’Harel’s impassioned dressing down lasted for a hungry beggar’s too-short second. Through all of this and clear to leaving Solas never looked at Una, though his tepid lady gazed unceasingly upon his every move. Even as he stalked across her path and spat compliance aimed to injure, the power of his rarely seen ill temper set desirous knots a’throbbing low and hot in Una’s poison-addled belly. As arousal knocked, _venuth_ sent prickling needles snuffing in reply.

“As you wish, **Inquisitor.”**

And he was gone. Her formal title sounded toxic on her lover’s tongue. _No matter,_ Una told herself as Solas left their dreamlike haven in a stewing snit. _Be it words or be it draught, poison is a trial I’ve doubly bested._

The misunderstanding was unfortunate. Though the corner of her mouth took on a frown, Lady Lavellan spent no thought on self-pity. As the man she longed for stormed away to offer Cole requested aid, Una paid a calculated price: She knew full well that Fen’Harel would turn the mission down if he realized her ailments. Before his back was out of sight, her feet were moving towards her desk and duty.

That she used her mouth to rouse her morning-stiffened mate was action born of craving, _not_ of devious intent. He truly _was_ delicious when he slept, and _oh,_ her lust for every part of him was **endless.** She’d ached unsatisfied with mem’ries of his rigid flesh for three sleepless days and nights. The gem-set _valunin_ sat sparkling useless on her nightstand; she’d tried everything she knew to make the blighter work. The lonely Inquisitor made do with nostalgia, digitizing pleasure as her sneaking cheek trespassed upon his sleeping back.

Starved as Una was for his affections, refusing Fen’Harel’s advance was **not** an easy thing. She stayed his hands for sake of _venuth’s_ relentless nausea, not to hold his favor hostage. Though the Kirkwall matter pressed, Fen’Namas was not in _such_ a rush to see her newly woken lover out the door.

Still, near as the iron-throated lady came to wretching when marred fingers held her hair and took her loving mouth, she wholeheartedly seceded to her suffering body’s stipulations lest Solas find her out and put them straight to bed. Who _knew_ how long they’d sleep, how long the task of solving Fadefolding would take?

No. She’d have the elves of Kirkwall first. She would see her people comfortable, she would see Cole’s sense of urgency respected. Though he’d been keeping busy with – what _was_ Cole doing all day? - her impatient darling was clean out of fingernails to chomp.

She supposed then, as she knelt to sip utopic water with her cupping hands, that the Dread Wolf’s slight at being manipulated was not entirely misplaced.

The poison was a calculated risk. Neither one of them expected the _venuth_ to plague her with such haste, but here it was, and it was worth the price. Familiar belly-anchored knives came twisting unforeseen when Una laughed too hard the night before, chiming in with Lace and Veyla’s commentary on the Emissaries’ heated dinner spat regarding fashion’s basic principles. Both had strong opinions on enchantments meant to charm. When pressed, the discerning Vint gave Compassion truth he fancied as a friendly favor: No, he wasn’t _awful_ looking. However, between awkwardness, cadaverously pallid skin and lingering acne scars a lifetime old, the magic _really_ couldn’t hurt his diplomatic cause. Ah, and neither would a **haircut,** he should mention.

Lace insisted the dashing young man was _hardly_ awkward. When Una pecked his shaven cheek and called him handsome, Cole’s arms crossed and his mouth went smirking smug across the table. Disgusted, Dorian’s hands beseeched the heavens in a gesture of defeat. All present laughed with raucous love, and then the stabbing came.

The tireless pair took up squabbling over Harding’s outfit for the coronation. So immersed were they in Cole’s insistence after some Orlesian tailor with a name so florid no one could repeat it, all caring ears were deaf to Una’s quiet hiss of pain. Naturally, she was relieved to hurt unnoticed.

She wondered, when it hit. Solas spoke of deathly torture spanning many months. Had he ever seen a comrade drink _venuth_ for merely weeks, and then _recover?_ Perhaps subsequent sensitivity was to be expected.

 _It is of little consequence,_ the lady thought as she threw back her final vial and tossed it careless in the drawer she then toed slamming shut. _Solas will be back before I've finished with my missives._

Besides. Mate or no, what good could come of Solas worrying over Una’s every little hurt? Fresh godhood’s stint of misery and guilt. The nightmares. The way he stood in pouring rain to _‘rescue’_ her in Castle Denerim. The harrowing folding of the Fade. The Solidarity that shocked her pain-racked body into stupor.

She’d been fussed over **enough.** Though she fostered no desire to hurt the man she loved, the unintended bitter medicine of slight may serve to remind him of her strength and return balance to their bond. Wounded as he seemed, her trusting heart contrived no worry over losing him.

And so, while begrudging Solas tread in early morning dew to fetch the boy and see the mission done, Lady Lavellan’s sumptuous behind settled in to serve her long-neglected desk the way it had for days. The calculating leader trusted able-minded Cole to handle Solas and his bitter morning temperament. Likewise, she knew Dorian and Thalis could see full well to breakfast. For her part, she did her damnedest to ignore the teeth a’gnawing in her gut.

There was no waystone to _Namadahlan,_ for obvious recent reasons bordering on superstition. In the absence of convenient conveyance, Solas oversaw her mail with moping Una indisposed. He requisitioned the untended birdfeeder from her balcony and bent the thing to use. Members of the Inquisition need simply set her letters on her empty throne, and voila - there they sat upon the pewter pedestal beside her desk, waiting to be sorted. ( _Sorted,_ yes. **Read?** Well…The Inquisitor had catching up to do.)

Likewise, once removed, a paper placed upon the feeder wound up in Skyhold's unforgiving wooden throne. Though anyone could _send,_ only Leliana’s touch could take a letter up. Somehow, Solas set his nifty trick to only work with paper; the backsides of sneaking big dreamers were wholly safe from being whisked away by the Inquisition's seat of power.

Even with the Breach and all associated hells addressed, the Inquisitor was popular. Convention was the same as it had always been – letters sorted by importance in three stacks upon the far edge of her station’s spanning varnished plane. No desktop could contain these growing piles that languished unaddressed, however. When the pending messages got out of hand, Solas took the liberty of fetching whiskey crates to manage bulk. There they sat before her desk, waiting full and tidy. Of the 'least-important' category, crate mass numbered _three,_ and these were  _not_ small crates.

Each missive passed through Josephine, many first through Lelianna’s team; Una’s desk had no need of a seal-slitting blade. The lady pulled her hair over one shoulder as undaunted eyes went drifting o'er a dull expanse of parchment flecked occasionally with color. She took a penknife and a fresh quill from her drawer, she set the thing an edge and dipped the hollow tip in her galenic well of ink. A flick of magic lit her half-spent candle; though the sun was coming on quite nicely, she convinced herself the added light would aid her poison-clouded eyes.

She’d made progress a’plenty while Solas was asleep. She knew of Vivienne’s disappointing ascension to Divine; she spat a curse at humankind for that. She clapped at Cullen’s joyous wedding to raven-haired Mellina coming up in four short weeks. Just when a heartfelt letter from a widow or a bereaved mother would set war-racked Una weeping, a dirty limerick from Varric would have her laughing through her tears so loud she’d nearly wake the god across the stream. His raunchy poesies numbered in the _dozens._ Oh, she _missed_ his rotten face.

The lady took a breath and snatched the nearest sheet of folded parchment in her silky fingers. Throughout the morning, the Inquisitor sat reading in persistent spite of aching viscera and blurring vision. That afternoon, when Leithara passed the throne and saw responses in her lady’s hand amassing in the basket she’d placed there, the smiling servant went to notify the spymaster.


	36. What The Dread Wolf's Blood Had Done

As if on cue, Hightown sprang to life upon Compassion’s jingling passage through the dreaded rosy door. Chattering noblefolk came lazing through the streets, guardsmen strolled their ritualistic rounds in clicking armored greaves. Those well into their workday would not miss this morning’s cloudless sky, a celebrated treasure true and rare: all through Kirkwall, doors were propped and windows open wide. Though even Fen’Harel‘s sharp ears could not perceive the ruddy-knuckled women harmonizing far below him in the steamy laundry quarter of the muddy mire of Lowtown, exalt with song they surely did. All burdens within range rode lighter for it.

Although his shadow stretched along with all the rest, straight-backed Fen’Harel stood cerebrating seemingly outside of time. As he waited with the stillness of a sculpture, his furrowed brow considered clean-swept stone that sprawled in sunshine underneath his half-wrapped feet. T’was not ancient stuff to him, but  _nearly_ so. Solas knew full well the bygone era’s hells still languishing beneath.

The Inquisitor’s elven manservant was accustomed to the gawks of passers-by. Though people clucked with scorn, they rarely had the gall to ask after the misplaced knife ear’s business –  _never,_ when he bore his wicked-looking staff of gleaming onyx. (Though numbering among his love’s most cherished gifts, prudence in the face of Kirkwall’s recent past bade Solas leave his Veil-lit instrument at home. Still, from his belt the seeming harmless orb did heavy hang.)

His ignoble earth-hued garb, his pointed ears and shining head, his solitude, his utter lacking motion; everything he was set Solas stark apart from Hightown’s typic morning fare. Their noble sensitivities quite naturally offended, the nearby population coalesced to one great staring eye.

The noblewomen gasped and tittered, whispering scandal even when they walked alone.

The noblemen would spy his knife eared back and _scowl._ They’d screw their faces up as if they meant to call him out; some posturing gents kept up their bluff so far as gestures. They’d wag an imperious finger, part their lips and take a breath as though to say, _“You there! Now, see **here!”**_

Without fail, once they drew near enough to realize the understated stranger’s stalwart bearing, these would-be champions shook their heads and abandoned social justice with dismissive waving hands and an expression of disgust. _Bah! I can’t be bothered! I’ve more important things to do. Maker’s **Breath,** but that’s the tallest knife ear I have **ever** seen. Surely someone else will call the guard. _

_Speaking_ of Kirkwall’s jaded peacekeepers – Well. Those on watch _today_ were satisfied to see that Solas was not pilfering. Sadly, more would act to save a man from Solas than the other way around. Though she _insisted_ on impartial justice from her men, iron-willed Guard Captain Aveline was by no means omnipotent in the face of age-old prejudice.

Even Lowtown’s pigeons, equally unwelcome curs themselves, gave the knife-eared vagrant’s back an ogling second look as they strutted cocky ‘cross the street. (Wild pigeons knew The Dread Wolf’s telltale scent from leagues away, even when his feet were merely two.  _ **These**_  greasy birds were clueless. If their ancestors could see these ignorant city squab a’leering now, each feathered one would faint with nerves.)

Occasionally, when of a mood the nearest Solas ever came to playful, his stormy gaze would deign to hold a haughty onlooker accountable. Fen’Harel’s indifferent recognition invariably sent threatening eyes a’scrambling for their toecaps, mayhaps skyward in a ploy to check the sun for time of day. Some coughed or cleared their throats, some others whistled.

Today, the rubberneckers went unnoticed and unpunished. Fen’Harel was far too deep in thought to play at goading mortals.

His thoughts, though numerous, forsook conquest and his daughter to run monochromatic with his golden mate. For nigh on four seasons now, they  _so_  frequently did. If not with guilt or longing, then with disbelief or admiration, or with **worry.** Fen’Namas left Fen’Harel no dearth of worry.

Though his mind carped on about his taxing mate with godly zeal, his every fret was underpinned with lolling, smirking satisfaction. _Oh,_ to be a god with mind enough to fuss while reveling in pleasure’s ceaseless memory.

Of course, the contemplative man held mem'ries far surpassing sex. He often called upon their early talks in Haven with fond remembrance. _My,_ but how quickly his old heart’s revolution passed into the realm of _‘long ago.’_ Those days, her countless eager questions worked his throat to dry against the backdrop of a Breach-plagued setting sun.

Though he recognized her unconscious spirit as a treasure ‘fore he knew her name, to fall in _love_ with she who swiped his Anchor was very much an unexpected thing. Through time spent in Una’s questing retinue, he came to know the lady’s eloquence and strength. As their private talks became a nigh-on nightly ritual, Solas found that elegance and brazenness were by _no_ means mutually exclusive.

Back then Una’s unique brand of blunt sincerity left the Herald’s toiling members often touched, _occasionally_ haggard. Her humble Fademancer was no exception. His mind laughed as he recalled the week she spent a’toiling to match him with Minaeve. Even as he opined o’er his lack of taste for intimate companionship, eyes that disobeyed their owner would indulge in Una’s every muscled curve when Fen’Harel was _certain_ no one else observed.

How simple, how relatively _painless_ things had been before the Dread Wolf fell from unexpected lust to helpless love. His jaw worked so feverishly the night he overheard his coveted creature whining ‘gainst a bucking _shemlen_ in her quarters, Fen’Harel swore to Mythal his ancient teeth would finally shatter.

The sting was gone from that, as it was gone from godly cover blown. Tried against the growing athenaeum of his soulmate’s loving clamor, the whines Solas once begrudged ran wan and hollow. His mind’s ear could conjure up her every utterance: her fervent invocations ‘gainst the wall in Castle Denerim five days ago, her screaming pleas for roughness as his passion rasped their skin against her cherished rug when first he had her. He recalled the way her flaxen hair came spilling ‘gainst his skin like endless silk as he rocked beneath her in his slighted brother’s curs’d canyon. The taste of her, the _scent_ of her, her sultry voice.

_You are **amazing,** emma lath, and I will be your eager slave until you tire of me._

He’d meant it, in a sense. In **another** sense, he very much had not.

Even as his indulgent heart relived her hot mouth’s slurping adulation, a recollection mere _hours_ old, Fen’Harel’s heckles prickled with unease. Though a mate’s duplicity may seem to some a harmless flirty thing, **oh,** but it did  **rile**  him. He was no longer _cross,_ per se, although he surely had been. It was a bitter thing, tasting his own ecstasy on cherished lips laced with deceit. He pushed her then, he found his feet, he changed his clothes in scowling silence with his back to her.

_“As you wish, **Inquisitor.”**_

He did not look back to see if Una balked. Through all, she uttered nothing.

Lovesick as he was, Fen’Harel knew Una better than he knew himself. _Yes,_ she always did surprise him. This was… _different._ Aside from trapping gods with truth-laced wine, Fen’Namas was  _not_ the type to get her way with petty tricks. Nor was she the sort to treat another with such glaring disrespect. The perceived slight of being manipulated in his bed now recast as consternation, Solas stood with Mythal’s beloved sun a’beating on his back and searched his mind for explanations of his mate’s bizarre behavior _._

When Una wished a favor ‘fore The Fall, she never blushed to ask _._  Though Solas found this business with Cole’s superstitious Dalish woman set a certain muscle in his cheek a’twitch, his golden lady’s will had moved the god to  _far_  greater discomforts.

She had no _reason_ for deceit. In the pursuit of liberation, their interests were aligned; Fen’Namas and Fen’Harel would see these downcast elves set free. Solas felt so strongly on the matter, he agreed to Cole's request  _in spite of_  Una's ploy that shamed them both. If she had merely _asked_ instead of playing him a fool, Fen’Harel’s only grievance would be with Cole, a stern but gentle one at that. _Namadahlan’s_ aspiring ambassador must be held accountable for promises made prematurely.

 _My heart. When have I refused you? Why not simply_ **_ask?_ **

Indeed. Why  _not?_   _Venuth_  muddling her wits _,_ perhaps – though it hadn’t done before, even when she quaffed the stuff for months. Perhaps she feared refusal, an old man’s vain attempt at clinging to a secret he lost hold of months ago.

 _Surely,_  Solas thought,  _my lady knows I am not given to delusions. We two are full aware that my disguise died with her._

His mind turned sharp on death. Who  _did_ his all-forgiving lover strive to murder in the  _Arla’Numinan?_ Mythal’s  **Grace** _ **,**_ what offense drove his benevolent lady to _revenge?_ Though Solas had his theories, to be unsure was maddening. Whydid his mate refuse to share these truths? Secrets were unlike her. Perhaps fear of Solidarity birthed Una’s silence? Her astute admirer  _doubly_  doubted that. Fear of pain was  **very much**  unlike her.

Manipulation. Secrecy. Killing rage that ran unchecked. The world-crushing grief that nearly stole her heart and sought to claim her still, though Una nobly fought it. The Fadefolding he’d spent a dreamer’s year deciphering. 

Solas wondered then, as an unnoticed pigeon bobbed bold and gawking ‘cross his furrowed line of sight, just  _what_  the Dread Wolf’s blood had done. Though Fen’Harel  _did_ have a knack uncanny for improvising magic when the need was dire, nonzero were the times he’d blotched whilst fire-haired June rubbed his face and groaned. 

Solas quickly wondered at his most beloved brother’s face the day he locked them all away. Just as quickly, his cascading thoughts moved on. 

Fen’Harel had much to do – a fete to host, a godling pupil to instruct, an empire to overthrow, a daughter and a mate to give stern talkings to. As Fenris toasted his bald pate, his feet tread sunwarmed stone to plot the Alienage a course. With each wide step, he denied Cole’s knit-fingered plea to gather Varric and meet this jittery woman on her terms.

_Ir abelas, gentle friend. Fen’Harel will not be made to stand and wait._


	37. Erudition 2:1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even before Cole was Cole, he’d been a wholesome spirit moved by curious desire. That spirit would have _never_ felt a young man crying in the dark if he hadn’t been so covetous of life beyond the Veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ripping my eyelids a little bit wider  
> Are two prying hands that grew out from my shoulders,  
> And I can’t explain why... but it’s hurting my eyes.
> 
> Thick blackened quills springing out of my back,  
> And there’s hair in between and in all of the cracks  
> Of my skin that’s grown scaly and yellowish-brown.  
> My mind is a cloud… and it wants to come out.
> 
>  **I’m a[monster.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h63ujhyY-1c&feature=youtu.be&t=16s)**  
>  \---

_“I see! Have a prayer and make yourself at home! I’ll just nip away and ask.”_

He sat, he thanked, she left. As he heard the woman gaining stairs he couldn’t see, in the shadow of his tattered hat Cole breathed relief.

Bernadette was dainty as the upturned teacup he distractedly admired before centering his rose-pressed bonbon on the porcelain base for close inspection. She smiled and winked, she laughed short little laughs. The dress she curtsied in was lovely, her long hair was bouncy like the curly paper ribbons in Orlesian gift wrapping boutiques. When she bade him sit, he blushingly obeyed her without question.

Cole didn’t like the way this person made him feel. At **all.** He found himself longing to fight with Merrill instead of sitting in this decadent parlor awaiting Bernadette’s return. Uneasy fingers fidgeted at a growing hole in his hat’s sheltering brim as he eyed the treat this lady called a ‘prayer.’

Prayer was man’s connection to divinity. It happened in the Chantry, at the dinner table, when tucking little ones in bed at night, when men lay dying. Templars prayed when they ate, when they killed. He’d heard Varric praying once before, when their entourage broke camp to scour the countryside for red lyrium. When The Fall came pressing through the woods whilst Cole stood poised amidst a sea of straining bows and glinting blades, he heard more whispered prayer to Mythal in seconds than he’d hear between today and ever after.

The closest _Cole_ had ever come to prayer was mourning on his knees in dead of night, weeping for the slaughtered lives of tens of _scores_ of pleading voices Mythal never heard.

Prayer was like the Inquisition – an idea, not a _thing._ So, then. What was this chocolate for?

Cole thought about the first time he watched Solas eating chocolate. A ritual - he'd quietly remove himself from camp, he'd find a grassy knoll and play at privacy. His friend would get a far-off look, he’d lay listening to crickets as he gazed upon the starry sky with his hands behind his head and a contented smile upon his face. This time and _every_ time, the god’s chaotic soul ran calm and purple.

Compassion was fascinated by the change. That first night, he materialized standing in the grass just above the elf's bald head. As he leaned forward to block the stellar view with staring upside-down upon his newfound friend, Cole asked Solas why this food made him so happy. His confection-laden words came thick and simple.

"Gentle spirit. Chocolate is the closest humans ever came to walking in an unscathed Golden City.”

Cole was not the eating type back then, but he remembered. He’d tried it since, a dark and brittle shard from Fen’Harel’s own private stash. An off’ring in an Elvhen palm to celebrate Cole’s new found station as an Emissary _._ As the Dread Wolf’s initiate chewed the bitter crumbling stuff, it was all his picky tongue could do to force a cringing smile and swallow. That night, Cole swished so much water in his mouth he woke up twice to piss.

He’d eaten dirt before, on accident of course. He was _quite_ certain chocolate tasted worse.

The treat ‘round which Cole’s current quandary spun was something else entirely. Where the chocolate Solas ate was nearly black and jagged-sharp, this creamy-looking jewel enticed all milky smooth and tidy. If “biscuit” could mean breakfast bread or little cookies, perhaps “chocolate” was the same. Perhaps the _praying_ kind was better. It still didn’t make _sense,_ but he _was_ curious.

_Nobody’s watching. I can always spit it out._

He shrugged alone, he made his mind, he pulled his kerchief from his pocket just in case he had to spit. Gloved fingers plucked the little treasure from its china rest and stuck the whole thing flat upon his tongue. He sucked the chocolate ‘gainst the ridges of his mouth and waited for the taste to come.

He truly did adore the china, intricate black patterned lines kissed with a golden rim. In spite of the day’s worries, Cole turned the captivating teacup in his hands and checked the saucer for a maker’s mark. As his eyes took note of the craftsman _Fermi_ scrolled in tasteful gilded lettering, his discerning tongue decided chocolate of the praying kind was scrumptious indeed.

Though Varric’s distant holler startled him, Cole's admiring fingers ran no risk of dropping Fermi’s lovely work.

_(“Kid? ‘Zat you?”)_

Cole scowled at his friend’s uncharacteristic lacking manners. If Varric insisted on bedding with a whore, he could at _least_ respect the poor woman’s dignity enough to leave off yelling conversation down the stairs. Cole thought he just might tell him so, _alone_ of course, when all of this was done. It was his duty as a gentleman.

In spite of wistful wish to savor, Cole gave the tasty morsel a quick bite to have it gone and speak. There was something in the middle, he prodded with a curious tongue – _Paper?_ He held the tiny square of parchment with his teeth and sucked it clean. Gloved fingers drew the bitten sheet between his pursed lips like a butcher’s ticket. He swished his spit to swallow chocolate’s lingering richness.

Though he’d done his fair share of ill-tempered bellowing these past few weeks, it _was_ quite unlike Cole to shout. As he cleared his throat, he found his feet and moved long-legged to the beaded doorway with the square of paper tucked against his leathered palm. He didn’t bother opening the tinkling cascade; though he _did_ admire the teacups, the off-put spirit strove to touch as little of The Blooming Rose as possible.

One gloved hand framed his mouth. Cole called as loudly as he dared, wincing as he did so. **“…Varric? Isn’t this rude?”**

_(“Ten minutes, Kid! Don’t eat the chocolate!”)_

His head drew back, his eyes likewise surprised. He blinked down at the scrap of parchment in his palm as he stuttered, fumbling and loud. “Um! **…O, okay!"**

The automated part of him set to work planting footsteps ‘cross the doubly plush floor matting toward the entrance. Though he dreaded doing so, informing restless gods of all delays _did_ seem the proper thing.

All the rest of him – his mind, his eyes, his hands, his gradually hastening heart – set to work unfolding waxen paper as he walked. He took keen note of how the chocolate didn’t smudge the ink or stain, though the wax held each sharp crease without forgetting. Inside, he found a message scrivened in a hand most eloquent and thin.

 

_The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil_

_And grew jealous of the life_

_They could not feel, could not touch._

_In blackest envy were the demons born._

_Erudition 2:1_

 

Unsettled was an understatement.

His feet stopped dead. One rapping heel took on the trademark nervous tic he worked so hard to ditch. His head jerked up and left, then right, searching for some omnipresent judge. He spun around to face the beaded curtain, he scanned the corners and the ceiling of the ornate sitting parlor.

Nothing out of sorts. His disbelieving eyes resumed the scrawling text.

It sounded like a _curse._ As he read the tiny note again, Cole realized he’d quit his breathing. His chest swelled with deep inhalation through his nose, tongue fretting at aft-warned sweetness lingering in the valleys of his molars.

“Get a good one?”

Brisk and chipper, balancing a teapot on a tray. Oh, how his over-jealous sweetheart would scowl and squawk to see another woman get the jump on him as she had _never_ done. The girl was wearing _bells_ around her ankle, for Sylaise's sake. He gasped, he started with such violent shock his soles came jolting off the rug. Her interruption tore his eyes up from the prophetic scrap of paper. Quite blatantly, he stared as though she knew something he didn’t.

She kept the staring stranger in the corner of her eye, clearing surplus china as she set a spot of tea for two. She knew better than to laugh at folly in a man she didn’t know; her tone was nothing but sincere.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost! You don’t like your canticle?”

As he mimicked her word slow and foreign, the confusion on his face misled his well-intended audience of one.

“… _Canticle?_ What is this?”

“Oh! How rude of me – would you like me to read it for you?”

She reached out ‘cross the table, gesturing for Cole to sit and offering a palm to free his hand of the offending verse. He kept his place beside the bird-embellished wall, growing more perplexed with every passing second.

_Why would I want her to- …is that how chocolate praying works? Oh, **no.** I took it from **her.**  Am I supposed to - I don’t care. I won’t do it. I **won’t.**_

His squirming heels were threatening to wear two holes in Lusine’s poshest carpet. As he sternly shook his head, he ruined the paper with his clenching fist and stuffed the crumpled insult in his pocket. Bernadette chirped a gentle “huh” of relenting wonder as she took a seat and poured their piping tea.

Then came a crash upstairs. When Cole heard, he bolted through the beaded curtain yelling Varric’s name. _My,_ but he had lungs when he cared to use them.

**_“VARRIC?!”_ **

_(“I’m fine, Kid! Just eating breakfast!”)_

Cole’s imagination repulsed him then, as he assumed his friend’s unwholesome sex was wrecking furniture. It traumatized him, seeing this dark side of his dearly trusted role model.

_Lace wanted to love you. I told you, you said no. For **this** …?_

He came back through the beaded curtain with a miserable sigh. Solas would be _doubly_ cross by now. Cole was afraid to face him. Cole imagined if _he_ tried to wait outside, he’d land a Veil-armed beating for slinking off to court the Dread Wolf’s pretty daughter under guise of a quick piss.

Speaking of; he never went, and he _did_ need to. Quickly as his body reminded him, Cole once again forgot. Instead, he fretted over Fen’Harel and Merrill. He fretted over Varric’s breakfast time debauchery. He fretted o’er the chocolate he was not supposed to eat and at the omen of the caustic verse he’d bitten. He fretted over misread obligations to the little woman at his side.

His fists clenched and released with rhythm ‘gainst his thighs, leather gloves a’squeaking twixt his fingers. As he glanced over his shoulder through the swaying beads he’d just disturbed, he saw the stairs and longed for Varric to come down them. Wearing pants.

Attuned to nerves she didn’t wholly understand, Bernadette leaned in her chair and gave the back of Cole’s form-fitting jacket a gentle tug.

“I poured you tea. Sit with me while you wait? I don’t bite, Ser.”

Cole paid recognition o’er his other shoulder, eyeing her through loose strands of his hair. Though he feared the lady for her craft, he seemed to keep forgetting she was in the room. Her half-pout compelled something deep inside him to comply, even as it irked him. “Oh. I – thank you. Sorry.”

Though he settled obediently in the furthest chair, the trade from feet to arse did little to assuage his anxious mind. Distracted eyes found focus in the depths of ruby-coloured tea. He took up the dainty teacup with one finger through the handle. As he blew to bid it cool, his warring conscience strove for calm through self-admonishment.

_You aren’t a monster. You’re wearing clothes, you’re sitting in a chair. You’re blowing on your tea so it won’t hurt. You’re talking to yourself. You eat, you sleep, you piss._

_You didn’t **steal** this body. You **wanted** Cole to live. You’re deaf now, and everyone remembers you. You aren't a demon, not even a **spirit**. You’re just a person. _

_Canticles are stupid. **Knock it off.**_

“Sugar?”

He’d passed too many beats with tea a’frozen in midair as though he wished for something. Again, he blinked at Bernadette as though she’d just appeared. His refusal of the sugar came with a stiff-shouldered shudder. _“No._ No thank you.”

She hummed acknowledgment. In unison, they sipped. She offered him a plate of biscuits – not breakfast ones. The little cookie type, the sort that came with tea. He took one, though he set the crunchy treat aside. When the courtesan began to cook up talk, Cole's impatient eyes went drifting toward the stairs.

“Did you grow up in the Orlesian countryside, Ser? You don’t need to be embarrassed. There’s no shame in illiteracy – I think it’s charming, really. Master Tethras writes, you know. I bet he would teach you!”

The tea tasted more like roses than any rose he’d ever smelled. Thankfully, it washed the dreaded vestiges of chocolate from his mouth. When he ran his tongue along the surface of his teeth to reassure himself, he found they… _tickled._ Teeth weren’t supposed to tickle. It made his heart sigh happy, just like Una’s fingers combing through his hair as he lay half-asleep and staring at her chamber’s crackling fire so many moons ago.

His eyes slide closed, abandoning their watchful vigil on the stairs. A smile went twitching in the corner of his lips, his cheek worked as his tongue explored the curvature of every tooth. He chose not to mention where he came from; he didn’t have an answer that felt true. As for worrying that her offer to read his canticle meant something more? That worry slipped his mind. His response to Bernadette was unoffended and distracted.

“He did. I read every night.”

“Oh! How delightful!”

Her flirty expression was lost on his closed eyes. Her china clinked as she leaned across the table with a knowing smile he couldn’t see, peering up into the shadows at his enraptured face. Her words came low and gentle, as though a child were sleeping in the room. Her voice giggled with the secret of his current state.

“And you’ve _never_ read the canticles?”

“Mm-mm. Don’t want to. That paper wasn’t true.”

She cringed and sat up straight, cooing bashfully into her tea. “I’m sorry, Ser. Our clientele are usually Andrastian, and Madam Lusine insists I offer prayer to everyone. I meant no offense to your religion.”

Andrastian. Was _that_ why Varric warned against the chocolate? Was eating it without belief offensive?

A small part of him then noticed that she sounded far away. His eyes came open – there she was, and she was glowing. So was the golden fringe of shining yarn that trimmed the throw pillows arranged upon the couch. So were the shiny vine patterns up on the gilded ceiling. He chortled ‘neath his breath with wonder as his eyes went roving ‘round the room. It was like seeing souls, but... _things._

When he swore he saw a meadowlark seize fitful on the wallpaper behind the lady’s head, his marveling quickly turned to apprehension.

_Solas never **looks** scared of something dangerous. Neither does Una. Neither do I, I don’t think. We’re warriors, we can’t, it isn’t safe. _

_But we all **get** scared sometimes._

He became acutely aware of his clothes; his boots, his underthings, his gloves and all the rest. He felt constricted, overrun with touch. He strove for calm. His own voice sounded muffled by a heavy wooden door.

“…It’s alright, Bernadette. You didn’t write it...”

She giggled in response. “Actually, I _did!_ We make them here!”

Her giggle sank beneath his skin and itched. He shifted in his seat and stared down at his distorted reflection in the shivering surface of his tea; _anything_ to avoid the birds and flowers that spasmed tortuously in all directions. From the corner of his sight, the velvet walls became a sickly twitching aviary that pressed and loomed like prison. He struggled desperately to block Anselmi's tales of tortured creatures from his mind.

Through all of this, he held his tea aloft. He drank the stuff again, trying to act natural – this time, the taste was _so_ strong he could hardly stand it. His tongue against the roof of his own mouth caused a jolt of sensation so sharp his knees jerked together underneath the table.

His words rode on a whimper.

“Oh – I, I’m sorry. It was nice. You draw nice letters.”

Bernadette batted her lashes at his dumbing language. She smiled and sat back, nibbling delicately at a biscuit. Her words became distorted, chunks went missing.

“You’re too kind, Ser. I hope (…) Ah! Will you be attending the deshyr’s (…) the _silliest_ birthday parties! Two years ago (…) barrels and _feathers_ and – ”

As she spoke, the floor beneath the table devoured light; glowing vision swirled and left him like the vortex of a quickly draining tub. His toes curled inside his boots as he blindly set Fermi’s teacup down to rattle crooked in its saucer.

When the birds left, when the room left, when her voice left - only Cole remained. The itch beneath his skin became a _burn._ He brought his hands before his face and ripped his gloves away. As he watched his skin turn black with char, his heartbeat raged arrhythmic and his pupils shrank to specks. Before his eyes his wicked nails grew long and sharp, skin cracking to reveal a molten hell beneath.

Though the door was gone, Cole cried out feebly for Solas. His quiet plea croaked weak from underneath his hat, trembling along with all the rest of him.

_“Solas, help-…help, **help** me, bind me…Too late, too late...Kill me, don’t **let** me…”_

\---

Across the table, all was well and fine. Bernadette stopped speaking and recoiled when her companion suddenly lurched back against his chair. She heard him whining _something_ with a high-pitched lilt, she saw him staring panicked at his hands. He tore off his gloves as though they were on fire, he wildly turned his hands from palm-up to palm-down and back again and whispered on the verge of tears.

_“No, please, **stop it,** no, no, **no,** no…”_

His knuckles whitened as he stuffed his hands beneath his thighs and began to fiercely shake his head. His uneven breaths were loud and heavy. His eyes clamped shut, he rocked forward with the vigor of a hysterical child as he muttered begging jibberish. With every stroke his ribs would thud against the table, setting every fancy thing a’rattle.

She’d heard that it _could_ happen, but Bernadette had never witnessed a bad dive; she’d never strolled through Darktown where the halestone stock ran dirty. Most clients became touchy-feely, others giggled and grew talkative. She couldn’t _count_ the halestone prayers that led to marriage proposals in her three short years serving at The Blooming Rose. Fortunate or no, her stone-drugged suitors had recounted to the man.

The brave young lady fought the urge to cry out for Lusine. Her slow hand sneaked across the table with intent to save the madman from the sloshing threat of scalding tea. As she slowly reached, Bernadette cooed comforts at a nearly unhinged killer twice her size.

 _“Easy,_ honey. You’re okay. Let’s get you to the couch.”

Her heart leapt with relief when she heard Master Tethras groaning gaudy about Lusine’s kitchen's role in early death. He nagged playful as his heavy boots came tromping on the stairs, something about dwarves and heart attacks. When her touch set his teacup clinking the man across the table cringed and sobbed with fear, stumbling to his feet so recklessly he felled his chair and knocked Lusine’s fine china to the floor.

\---

It hurt to breathe. He squeezed his arms around his chest to contain the nightmare clawing for escape between his ribs, he felt the bone that ran along the middle of his chest begin to crack and split. What speech he heard was muddled by the demon screeching in his head, indecipherable as Pola’s eager gabbing when Cole’s ears were shrouded ‘neath the water of his morning bath.

As his body’s legs surrendered to corruption, the bits of him that clung to sentience cried out a warning to the friends he left behind. Even as he spoke, he wasn’t sure he had.

_I can’t stop it, I can’t – run, you have to **leave** – Somebody **kill** me!_

_\---_

At the commotion, Varric bolted down the stairs much faster than his breakfast would have liked. He burst through Lusine’s damn’d doorway beads and dove across the room to grab Cole’s arms and hold him fast – he was writhing on the floor beside the wall. His bitten nails were clawing at flushed cheeks as he whined fervent gibberish with breathless lungs.

Bernadette stood frozen in terror beside the table, until Fenris curled his fingers in her dress to drag her from the room. He stood poised for action twixt the doorway and the fray, eyes racing o’er the unexpected scuffle. They’d met each other several times before – enough that Bernadette sought comfort, clutching the elf’s loose tunic as she looked on wide-eyed ‘neath his tattooed arm. Fenris let the girl’s unwelcome contact slide with a private scowl.

 **“KID!** **HEY! _KNOCK IT OFF!_ CHUCKLES, WILL YOU GET _IN_ HERE!?” **

The front door was feet away. Solas _would_ have heard, if he remained. A heavy blow across the face did little to snap Cole out of it. He renewed his struggling, now screaming _“NO!”_ so loudly neighboring business owners sucked their teeth and shut their windows.

So began a war of roguish speed – though Varric’s hand was notoriously quick, Cole’s frenzy brewed erratic chaos in his every move. He would _not_ be restrained. Varric took an elbow to the chin, he grabbed Cole’s hair and shoved his sobbing face against the rug.

When Varric and Cole began their hollering, the Madam came storming down her stairs with intent to skin them both. Fenris swiftly stepped aside, allowing Lusine’s deluge of rage to break upon her upturned anteroom.

**“Maker _damn_ you, Varric Tethras! OUT! _NOW!”_**

Bernadette squeaked from behind the beaded curtain, blabbing quick when Lusine took a breath from screaming at the dwarf a’struggling on her floor. “Madam Lusine he ate the prayer I think it’s a bad dive shouldn’t we – ”

Lusine spat. **“Lock the DOOR, you _stupid_ girl! I’ll deal with you _later!”_**

Terrified though she was, Bernadette obeyed _._ She bounced on fearful feet and rushed across the room to lock the door and pull the gauzy curtains. She pressed her back against the door and stared down the entryway's short hall; she couldn't see them struggling from here. As she heard his tortured wail and Varric's stunted cursing, the girl felt sick with guilt and worry for this poor man she’d never met.

Varric’s tongue was bleeding from the blow against his chin. He was far too frantically involved to perceive Lusine’s scolding – Cole was going for his pockets. That _fucking_ stone of his. He couldn’t – **“Broody! Andraste’s _TITS_ , a little _help?!”_**

Varric’s swollen speech sprayed bloody speckles on Cole’s face, pale skin already crimson with a lunatic’s desperate exertion. Fenris snarled with displeasure as he stormed past Lusine a beat too late. Just as he braced for the stabbing pain of contact and spread his reaching fingers towards the struggling pair, they disappeared.

Silence. Bernadette’s skirts rushed around her jingling ankles as she raced to find the carpet empty. When the poor girl screamed with terror, Lusine’s loud slap across her freckled cheek reclaimed order in The Blooming Rose.

“It’s half past nine. Unlock that door, young lady, and help me clean this mess.”

Bernadette nodded as her trembling lips contorted with restraint. Fenris broke free of the shock and followed the girl without a word of wonder to his host. The door tinkled at her touch. As he stepped into Kirkwall’s uncanny morning sun, he watched the young thing try to smile as she tearfully wished him a pleasant day.

_She’ll be fine. Just walk away. Hawke needs to know what’s going on._

He heard her quaking breath and took a backward step onto the carpet. Inside his head, he groaned and cursed himself. His on-cue smile was frightening and fake, but he _did_ try. He masked displeasure as he stiffly patted the weeping woman’s shoulder.

“It’s alright. He’s a slippery bastard. I’m sure he’s fi – ”

His pat became a grip when Bernadette sobbed and reached after a hug.

 **“No.** No hugging. Just…stop crying. If Varric hears a pretty girl was crying over him, I’ll never see the end of it.”

A quivering lower lip, a pouting nod. She pulled a lacy hankie from her bodice.

“You really think they’ll be alright?”

A knowing eyebrow hiked, his voice drawled dry. “Even when the Chantry blew, that dwarf didn’t miss his birthday. What’d he ask you for this year?”

She smiled. “A kiss.”

 _“Hnnf._ You got off easy. Wish that was all he asked from me.”

She laughed as Varric’s friend stepped quickly from the landing. She cleared her throat to pull herself together, dabbing at her eyes. As Fenris left, she glimpsed a favorite client coming ‘round the bend. Ah yes, today was Tuesday. Bernadette _loved_ Tuesdays; Dade would coddle her with gentle love all morning long, he’d kiss her tears away and buy her lunch.

As her dark-eyed lover smirked and gestured secret greeting with two fingers, she flirtily turned her cheek and pretended not to see him. Though he was far away, she heard him scoff with coy indignance. When Lusine barked at her to tidy up, she tucked her hankie in her dress and left the door of powder pink ajar.


	38. Sometimes Love Is Not Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Living in South Jersey is the extent of my Italian knowledge. I haven't even seen that show, whatever it is, with the gangsters. 
> 
> Who am I kidding. I am beyond qualified to google Italian things and say they're Antivan things.
> 
> Uccelli e Balene = Bird and Whale  
> Cigno Nero = Black Swan  
> Ricco sfondato = rolling in money; wealthy  
> Minchione = Idiot/Simple-minded person  
> Fortunello = Lucky bastard  
> “EHI! Scecchino! SBRIGATI!” = HEY! Little jackass! GETTA MOVE ON!  
> “Buona notte, Fortunello! Torna presto!” = G'night, you lucky bastard! Come back soon!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your: Patience! Readership! Patient readership!  
> \---

Though solitude was very much familiar to Dorian, to wait alone had _never_ been a painless thing. With taking up his residence in olde Antiva City, waiting ankle-over-knee behind _Uccelli e Balene_ became an ineluctable tradition.  As was his ritual, he idly ran his finger ‘round the lip of his espresso whilst he sat half-list’ning to the culinary racket spilling from the kitchen’s only window. Clanking skillets, hissing steam, heated foreign yelling – Antivan was, in every sense, a language engineered for passion. Dorian was never certain if the operants of this establishment were threatening death or making conversation.

Enzo’s was by far the poshest trattoria in his neighborhood. Though the service was particularly brash, here Dorian nigh on daily sat. Few were the ranks of altus with a whiff of skill for cookery. Though steeped in debt, a year of subsisting on hardtack and Skyhold’s uninspired fare left Lord Pavus justly wanting. Of course, he’d **much** prefer the haute cuisine of _Cigno Nero Ristorante_ down the street. To wait on takeout without company was misery enough; **fine dining** by oneself? Dorian could not conceive of worser torment.

Dorian was sick to _death_ of doing everything alone.

The vine-roofed breezeway smelled of sun and sea. Tevinter’s wayward son brought his neatly managed coiffure to rest against the shaded wall. When his troubled mind begged for distraction, hazel eyes explored the grapevine laden trellis overhead. Wide leaves stretched thick and verdant from this building’s postern to the next, a fruitful dappled ceiling ‘cross an alley paved in stone. Even in this hobby vineyard, each unripe cluster was wrapped in waxy vellum. Pastel tinted membranes durable enough to break the hearts of feathered foragers, thin enough to breathe and still permit the blooming sweetness of the sun. When ripe, the tireless hand that tied would work again to tend with ginger snipping. Not many were Antivan grapes that ever knew the earth, let alone the belly of a bird.

Though romantic, it seemed needless when one well-spun ward could guard the vintage.

_Ah, how **charmingly** societies embracing Chantry gospel waste their time. _

_…Says the grown man who starves without a kitchen full of slaves. Not even **fruit** is safe from the high-and-mighty scorn of Lord Pavus. Father would be **so** proud. More’s the pity._

To toast ironic self, he hoisted his espresso in the air. He bobbed his head, he took a sip. The ever-shrinking chip upon his shoulder lost an ounce.

Just then, the back door ‘cross the way birthed forth a bloody-handed butcher. This welcome arrival jarred Dorian from his reverie of self-admonishment. Pleased with the notion of companionship, the mage watched unabashed as the burly fellow produced a half-fagged cigar from the pocket of his slaughter-splattered smock. As the man struck a match ‘gainst sand-hued masonry and took a mighty puff, Dorian chimed cordially across the shaded lane.

“Bad news for you, man! Afraid smoking harms the lungs. They’ve banned cigars in Lydes, you know.”

The butcher’s lungs were hearty as the rest of him. As the man exhaled, lilac fumes rode skyward on his unrushed chuckle. Sweetly scented vapor shrouded his broad face and roiled wispy ‘gainst the canopy above; Dorian could smell the stuff from where he sat.

His newfound colleague sounded gruffer than a whisky-drinking bear.

“Bad for the lungs, bad for the crows. Good for the grapes.”

Blunt fingers occupied with smoking pointed toward the cooling demitasse upon the waiting mage’s wobbly wrought-iron table. “Bad for the heart.”

In response, Dorian took up his bitter draught and gestured cheers across the gap. “Bad for the heart, bad for the nerves. Good for the soul. To vice, my friend.”

A nod, and something like a smile. Smoke unfurling from a hand that gestured in return. _“Salute.”_

One dragged rough, the other finely sipped.  The butcher flicked his ash and shook his head in silent contemplation as men such as himself were wont to do.

The brief lull in conversation caused Dorian’s bebothered mind to itch afresh. His eyes went scanning for a sky they couldn’t find as he considered making idle talk about the lovely weather. Thankfully, the butcher spoke and spared them both. Dorian could not imagine this man’s heavy accent _not_ half-choked with smoke. If he could but parse the meaning of _ricco sfondato,_ he would die in throes of cackling irony.

“ _Ricco sfondato._ Months now, I see you buying Enzo’s prissy chicken. **Expensive.** _Minchione_. Where you think Enzo gets the fancy stuff, ‘eh?”

To illustrate, the squinting butcher jabbed his thumb against his barrel chest. Dorian laughed, lighting up with good nature.

“Exquisite as I’m sure your carcasses must be, my meaty friend, I am afraid I lack the expertise to patronize your fine establishment.”

To watch his stubby eyebrow quirk was _quite_ a sight. Dorian assumed confusion, and he clarified. T’would not be the first time flamboyant sarcasm cost him a conversation.

“I, ah – I can’t cook.”

Another forceful puff of fumes. The man’s eyes went a little flat. “I **heard** you, _minchione._ Your wife?”

It pricked the nerve he’d keenly been avoiding for an hour’s better part.

 **_Wife?_ ** _A moping fucktoy I occasionally deign to feed, more like._

 _“Heavens,_ no. No wife, thank you.”

A choking sound. “No wife!” Uproarious laughter – he was in every way a _booming_ man. _“Fortunello!_ No wonder you so wealthy, ‘eh?!”

“Your lady has expensive tastes, I take it?”

The kitchen at his back had long gone quiet. Just as Dorian began to wonder when his order would arrive, he heard a ladle banging rapid on some unyielding surface before it flew across the room and clattered ‘gainst the wall. For once, there was no question of the speaker’s state of mind.

 **“ _EHI!_ _Scecchino!_** _**SBRIGATI!”**_

Moments later, a grumbling busboy plopped a pricey sack of supper on the stoop and stalked away. The butcher hollered reproach at his back, entitled by his arguably charming culture to berate this youth whose name he didn’t know.

Dorian set his half-finished demitasse aside, taking up the weighty bag by mated loops of jute. When Dorian stood, the butcher held his gargantuan hand across the alley for a shake. Ten paces later, one blood-stained hand was slapping Dorian across the back while the other crushed his lissome fingers. His mind lacked the requisite vocabulary to describe the butcher’s smell.

Were Dorian a younger man, he would recoil from touching these coarse hands gone sticky with their bloody craft. As the ex-Tevene watched a wave of disgust course through his own mind, he checked himself with a friendly outward grin and enjoyed the handshake for the treasure that it was – an intimate connection with a stranger from another life.

“You call me Orsino, _Fortunello._ How you stay so sexy, ‘eh?” A slap against the mage's hardened stomach, one finger jabbing at the burdened paper bag containing food for three.

“Oh, _I_ don’t eat it. I pay handsome men like _you_ to eat it for me. Speaking of - I don’t suppose you’re free this evening?”

Orsino grew so quiet, the breeze among the grape leaves became at once a racket. The exploding laugh that followed turned his jiggling jowls redder than the pigsblood smeared across his apron. Too racked with mirth to speak, the butcher gave Dorian a rough shove between his shoulders to see him on his way. Dorian called out a very merry afternoon, smiling to himself as his feet headed home. Just before he disappeared around the bend, he grinned to hear Orsino call behind him.

_“Buona notte, Fortunello! Torna presto!”_

Yes, his Emissary stone could save the walk. Again, were Dorian a younger man, he surely would have saved himself the trouble. These days, however, he took great pleasure in mundanity. As he traversed the cobbled streets and overheard the carping beldams nagging to each other from their windows high above, he sorely wished his lover were the type to join a stroll.

With that wish, the thoughts he’d been refusing to address all day came flooding. He thought on his lover’s absolute _refusal_ to unload his burdens. His moustache twitched as he recalled the way it felt, standing helpless on the banks just hours before while Thalis shared morose confession with his little sister. Between distance and the sound of rushing water, Dorian’s fretting ear was none the wiser.

_“When we were kids, sometimes he tried to drown. Miss Una never let him.”_

_Of course you did. Poor, gloomy little rabbit. I’m not so certain **I** could stop you._

Though Dorian’s apartments _were_ most opulent, his hunt for a new homeland regarded more than seaside charm and finery. Few lived who could accept the mage for everything he was; in truth, dear Una was the first in _years._ Yes, his skin was thick from life as a pariah. Still - if the only nation capable of accepting Dorian’s magic spurned him for his taste in company, at the _very_ least he’d find a city where a man could love a man and not be reviled.

And so he had, and here he lived, and _still_ he walked alone.

It was unlike him, attraction to a vulnerable shut-in half his age. Though not devoid of empathy, a man who fights the world around him tooth and claw cannot _afford_ to nurture wounded doves. He’d spent so much of life preserving authenticity, the _last_ thing Dorian desired was a lover in denial of his very nature. Dorian was sturdier now, he liked to think, and self-assured and stable. Equipped to aid another soul as he had never been before. Still. The timidness, the downcast eyes, the shame, the _secrets._ Considering his past, nothing vexed the altus more than hiding love and living in a lie.

Yet here he was, mounting stone steps in a twisting helix with his clandestine lover’s favorite food in hand.

What vict’ries Dorian could boast felt small and ever-shrinking. Endless and _redundant_ were the talks that strove to free his shame-racked partner from the prison of his culture’s flawed traditions. Remission seemed to follow every breakthrough. When he realized his inability to elicit lasting change and _still_ continued acting out a romance with the broken boy, Dorian despised himself a cradle-robbing hustler.

Yet here he was, twisting the city from his soles upon the welcome mat and hoping beyond reason that his damaged friend would greet him with a smile.

He sighed lightly in a bid to brighten up his mood. He hummed a tune that wasn’t real, he gave the bag a jostle as he pulled the door to close behind him. Enchanted boots of rich Antivan leather clicked across the dully glinting tiles that floored his unproductive kitchen.

When his humming quit, he found the rooms were quiet. He set their lukewarm meals upon a sprawling table built for twelve that rarely seated two. He crept across the rug, peering through a half-gapped door to glimpse the chamber where he slept. (More truthfully of late, the chamber where he lay awake and pothered.)

He found the sharp-eared siblings as he left them. It was a strange thing, entertaining house guests from a culture he once fancied savage. Thalis remained supine on the bed – _their_ bed. Birthplace of what victories the older mage could claim. Though Dorian’s “quick run” left the hour glass sitting empty, Thal’s persistent sister was _still_ camped out on his chest. Though her station was the same, the way she squished his cheeks and chanted some sing-songy Elvish tease was new. The resulting smile upon his lover’s face was more than rare. _Extinct,_ or so Dorian had nearly convinced himself.

And therein lie the truth. Veyla could make Thalis smile where Dorian could not, just as Una saved the hurting boy from drowning. That boy now a man, and _floundering,_ all Dorian could do was try in vain.

When the Necromancer cleared his throat, they _both_ looked up. Veyla wore a face not unlike that of a varmint caught red-pawed rifling through garbage. Thal’s smile lessened, though his eyes were not unkind. When Dorian announced he’d bought their dinner at _Uccelli e Balene,_ he swore he spied the faintest glimmer of a smile he could take credit for.

_Chuh. Wake up, old man. He’s smiling at his pasta, not at you._

\---

Though cheerful Veyla’s mouth was busy jabbering enough for three, _still_ she housed her meal in record time. Thalis spoke less than he ate, and he ate next to nothing. The few words he _did_ deign to speak were wholly for his sister’s benefit.

By the time their meals were finished, Dorian was screaming on the inside.

When Veyla tugged upon his lover’s sleeve and declared her overstuffed discomfort, Dorian’s throbbing mind seized the opportunity for privacy. He’d seen the way her world-hungry eyes kept flitting towards the window.

“Brother, my stomach hurts. Will you – ”

“No, _da’lenlin._ Your gluttony offends Andrui – ”

The sound of coppers clapping down upon the table cut the exhorting Keepers’ Keeper short. Pocket money rang with scraping as Dorian shoved it ‘cross the varnished wood, pointing eastward with his other hand. The annoyance in his tone was barely corked.

“Perhaps a walk would ease your bloated gullet? The bazaar is two blocks that way. If you’re caught stealing, they’ll lob your little fingers off and feed them to the pigs. If you aren’t back by sunset, I’ll sell your brother to the Crows. _Deal?”_

 _Snatch!_ At once, the coins were rattling in Veyla’s pocket. She squealed with glee, hugging Dorian with a ferocity that cracked his spine. She was out the door before her frowning brother found his tongue.

Before Dorian could take a breath and gather up his thoughts, the iresome imp returned. She stood jouncing in his doorway, rushing words so fiercely diction suffered.

“Whas-a-bazaar-whas-a-block?!”

**_“Da’LENli – ”_ **

Dorian was shrill. _“Shopping,_ damn it! What do you suppose the money’s for, a bloody wishing well? Fasta **vass** , just -  _go that way,_ will you?”

“Whassawishingwe – “

**_“OUT!”_ **

She giggled with delight and left a yawning doorway in her wake. Dorian sat frozen with his hands palm-up in frustration and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to her bouncy squealing growing fainter as she trundled down the steps.

It seemed she would _stay_ gone this time. Thalis was halfway to the window before Dorian stood and moved to close the door. As Dorian pulled the portal shut, he listened to Thal’s panicked fumbling with the window latch – the apparatus was alien to him. When panes finally rattled, Thalis shouted Veyla’s name in vain. Dorian leaned on the wall, observing from behind with measured calm. As he spoke, his arms slowly folded.

“Relax, _amatus._ Your sister will be fine.”

“My _sister_ is an _elf._ The _shem_ will – ”

Softly, outwardly ignoring the derogatory slang that steeled his gut-wrenching decision. “This neighborhood is safe for elves, Thalis. I’ve _told_ you that, if you would ever listen. Maker’s sake, my downstairs _neighbors_ are elven merchants from Orlais. I’ve watched their children roam the alleys like a pack of rabid dogs for _months!_  Not so much as a scraped knee, and most are less than half her age.”

Thalis clutched the windowsill with trembling hands and hung his head. When someone hollered an Antivan insult up at him for causing such a racket, he abruptly straightened and slammed the window shut.

Dorian drawled. “Glass breaks, you know.”

Anxious silence. When Thalis moved to leave the room, Dorian’s hand caught his bicep in a vising grip and kept it there.

 _“Amatus,_ let her **be.”**

“Dorian. My sister does not understand your customs. Veyla has never seen a human city.”

Were Lord Pavus in a better mood, he'd chuckle at the harmless secret he chose to keep for sake of Thal's misguided sensibilities. It was not so long ago, the night wild-eyed Compassion twisted free of Dorian's grasp to whisk the girl away. Just yesterday, the giggling girl stole morsels from Cole's plate for flirty sport _right_ under brother's nose.

 _Fussy rabbit. You have **no**  _ _idea._ _**  
** _

A breath. Dorian’s eyes slid closed. His restraining grip on Thal's strong arm went tender as the older man gained headway in the battle for composure. “Let the girl explore. The day is nearly over; if she’s not back by sunset, I'll bloody well go find her.”

Those three rounds of gentle persuasion broke the elf’s resolve, leaving only sad and helpless worry. The weak-willed youth nodded glumly as he caved. Though it _was_ what Dorian wanted, it pricked his heart to watch the fight leave Thalis with such haste.

He brought the hammer up to watch it fall.

“So. We’re alone. I don't suppose you're interested in sharing what’s been eating you?”

Thalis dropped his eyes to the ground the way he _always_ did. He said nothing, and he did not move. It was a tired old dance by now – Dorian could pull the timid elf in for a hug, and he’d allow it. Perhaps he’d even nuzzle, _just_ a little. Dorian could coax him, then. Perhaps Thalis _would_ speak; perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps tender sex would follow. Perhaps it wouldn’t.

Regardless, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…they would be no different from today. Lord Pavus had **not** come this far in life to suffer endless in a prison of his own design, let alone to hinder growth this young man sorely needed.

The dance ended as it started: More with looks than words. Were Dorian a younger man, he would be snipping catty at the _predictability_ of it all. As it was his hand fell to his side, releasing the rough-spun robe that draped his catatonic lover’s arm. His brow melted with sadness as he watched those olive pools of pain go flickering ‘neath lavish lashes he adored. Stubbornly naïve and stoic as he was, the young man’s immediate comprehension filled Dorian’s cracking heart with a certain pride.

_There **is** hope for you, unhappy little rabbit. You are stronger than you know._

Where Veyla’s snatch was swift, her brother’s hand was glacial. The way Thalis took that leaving palm and pressed it to the clenching sinew ‘neath his cheek tried Dorian’s resolve as nothing else had _ever_ done. He did not cry, he did not beg. He simply _spoke,_ and that alone was shocking.

Though _amatus_ came on fast and easy, ne’er before had Thal’s gravel-addled voice box shaped the word _vhenan._

“I need you, _vhenan.”_

Dorian's heart ached upon his face. One last voyage of his admiring thumb against the high-cut apple of the ruined prodigy’s sharp cheek. Before Dorian withdrew, he brushed the young man’s fluffy bangs out of his staring eyes – hair he grew to please his lover, not himself. _Never_ himself.

“My wide-eyed little poppet. You need _something,_ all right, but it isn’t me. I thought it could be, for a while. I dearly wish it _was._ As it stands, I’m quite convinced I only make your problems worse by giving you the means to hide from them. Tough love is far outside my realm of expertise."

This time, Dorian’s hand fell unimpeded. He softly spoke as he left Thalis standing in the kitchen, headed for his bedroom door.

“Go after that troublemaking elfkit if you like, or wait here like you've got a lick of sense. Don't worry, I'm not _entirely_ heartless. I won't make you walk home.”

“Dorian.”

Steadfast feet refrained. Downcast eyes came o’er his shoulder as he paused the shutting of his door.

“Mm?”

“ _'_ _Amatus’._ Doesn’t it mean…”

“It does, _amatus,_ but you must understand - Sometimes love is not enough. It pains me, Thalis, but I cannot give you what you need. Continuing...this, whatever it is, isn't fair to either one of us. I'm...sorry.”

Two rough swallows from two edges of the room. Unexpected lingering, fingers numbly tracing ne'erfore noticed ridges in a doorknob cast of brass. Thalis spoke, even hoarser than was typical.

"You have bloody hand prints on your back."

A brief respite from feeling. Oh,  _blissful_ mundanity. Dorian pinched the corner of his robes and craned his neck, squinting o'er his shoulder at expensive silk. "Oh,  _lovely._ Because these weren't new and didn't cost a fortune _._  Such is the price one pays for shaking hands with a meat merchant, I suppose."

The elf said nothing. As Dorian's throat tightened, he wondered who was glummer.

"Thalis."

He looked up. Their mirrored eyebrows fought a contest of despair.

"I would have gone all evening-...Thank you."

No response; for once, who could blame him? Not another second, not for either one of them. The latch clicked to absolve them of the scene, in unison their eyes slid shut. Dorian lingered with his back against the door until Veyla burst into his apartment, crowing with the setting sun.


	39. The Lap of Mercy

A scratching quill, a floating wisp of conjured light to supplement the candle guttering on her desk. _Hahren_ never was the type to look up ‘til her business was complete. Her cuticles and fingernails were dusty pale with pounce. Twine ran up her left sleeve to bunch her stately robes above the elbow, saving them from ink.

Thalis was unlocked. He gripped the soggy paper box against his thigh. The better part of life he’d lived uncomft’bly numb, but _this_ was something else. A pounding heart, an aching pain behind his throat. He’d felt it on occasion these past few months, when Dorian would stroke his face and press at him for change. Thal would panic, Dorian would cave and pull the Keeper’s face against his chiseled body. Thal would fall asleep, he’d wake, he’d stuff his feelings shut and lock them up to start another day.

So much for that.

Where gentle Thal shed ample tears for Amias, he had no sympathy to grant himself. Robbed equally of love’s denial and misery’s release, the stabbing pains that clenched his jaw and set his teeth a’grind remained.

He knew not how he came to stand before his one-time teacher with his heart an oozing wreck. Little sister, unaware of any woes surpassing fatal birth, bent her inproficient lips to whistling ‘neath a sapling willow ‘cross the unfamiliar stretch of stream. She kept up her windy-sounding racket as she lay sprawled on her belly with her dirty feet a’swinging in the air, nose-deep in her magpie’s hoard of new Antivan treasures.

Though oblivious to their consortion, Veyla’s proud hands festooned Dorian and Thalis with matching wristlets immediately on her return from market. Dorian’s eye delighted in the twisting silverwork and leather, even as his voice rose high to nag the girl for stealing. Meanwhile, Thalis stood quietly by. He slid his finger back and forth beneath the leather band, privately dying inside.

“Are you truly stupid? These baubles cost ten times the coin I gave you. I **told** you not to **take** things, you impetuous waif! Dismembering thieving urchins **is**  Antivan pastime. Did you think I was _joking?!”_

“You didn’t say don’t **steal,”** the roguish understudy then supplied. “You said don’t get caught.”

A relenting sigh, light and fair and _wonderful._ It gripped Thal’s heart like rashvine. “ _Ahh,_ so I did. Well, my senseless dear, you have fine taste at the _very_ least. Much obliged. Let’s have you both home then, shall we?”

And here they were, and Dorian was otherwise engaged. He always would be, now. The Emissary spotted Lace upon arrival and took up chatting without so much as a backward glance. In losing Dorian, the Grand Keeper imagined he’d likewise lost his cherish’d _durgen’len_ friend.

Thal’s fingers fussed the bracelet burning on his wrist. Aside from subtle fidgeting, he appeared a wholly unaffected elf. As he stood upon her sacred grass and watched his tutor’s hand go scrawling ‘cross the page, unchecked suffering consumed his tongue and all the rest of him.

His torment started with the bangle. It gained momentum on beholding Una’s so-familiar hair, the first shield Thalis ever knew. The golden mass was tied back quick and sloppy, held fast by fibrous thread to spare it dragging in wet ink. When he dumbly noticed that the foreign tint was gone, he recalled their recent business in the _Arla’Numinan._ The burden of Deshanna’s keystone fester’d in the herb pouch at his hip, unaddressed and  _blaming._

The bickering of narrow-minded elders swirled around his head, as did the watchful eyes of all the rest. Disdainful glares from his right hand. Sagging poppies deemed an unacknowledged threat. The Dread Wolf’s questions, the weeping widow and the strangled babe. Love’s first trusted hand forsaking him for reasons Thal could not _begin_ to understand.

Reigning supreme, a new and special hell: an unprecedented inability to lock it up and **_turn it off._**

Her quill was down. It had _been_ down. His teacher’s silent gaze was on him with a scrutiny more real than any he imagined in his daily life. Intimidating though she was, t’was not fear but _worry_ gained the rank of woes when Thal beheld his idol’s state. Her skin was nearly gray. Her eyes were twitchy, dull and sunken.

Being her lesser, he stayed stolid-faced and bit his worried tongue. With a sudden jerk, he held his chilly leftovers across her desk in humble offering. The faintest nod instructed him to set the box aside. He did so, careful of her neatly sorted letters. Though she looked haggard, Una’s seasoned voice moved the shaken boy to deference just as it used to do. 

Luckily for _him,_ the teacher he obeyed was no longer ill-equipped to aid the boy's uniquely troubled heart.

“Forgive me, Keeper. Endless is the mail. Cast a coracinus barrier for us.”

She commanded, he obeyed, and for a fleeting moment life made sense. At his behest, an opaque dome of glossy black materialized around them. He’d forgotten the sweet comfort of his one-time favorite place to hide. The wispglow and the candle seemed to brighten as the world shrank down to blissful desk and them.

Una’s chair creaked as she leaned. She pressed her anchored hand against his work and smiled with tired pride.

“Outstanding, _da’len._ Your wards would humble Fen’Harel himself.”

Thalis stopped his fidgeting, but he made no response. Una’s head leaned back against her chair, eyes still beholding him. Her script-stained slender fingers came to rest upon her lap. Thalis remained standing out of nerves, regardless of the lacking second chair. He watched the yellow candlelight cast ghastly shadows o’er the hollows in her face and ‘gainst the wall of darkness at her back.

“Thalis. What is it you need?”

He surprised himself. In worrying over her, his own chaos lost its volume for a moment’s glimpse. He found the skill to speak and offer help she'd never once accepted.

 _“Hahren._ You are unwell. P, please - Let me tend you.”

“Your brilliant hand cannot heal weary hearts, my love. The words I read tonight weigh hard on me, but I am accustomed as one can be. What troubles you?”

Her tone brooked no evasion. His mind began to scream again, the maelstrom in his heart would _not_ be still. Thalis tried to talk, he _tried._ His fists began to work, his mouth came open, croaked, and closed. Una watched him, and her eyes went soft as she beheld the tongue-stuck boy from years ago. In one swift motion, she pulled the feet of her chair loose from sinking in the earth and scooted back to buy his approach what little room the barrier allowed. She spread her arms, beckoning with her hands. When Thalis winced and turned his face away in shame, she spoke.

“No one can see or hear us, dear, and you’ve no shame with me. I did not realize your tongue still plagued you so, young Keeper. For that, **I** am ashamed.

"Come. You needn’t speak. My touch will speak for you, and I will help in any way I can.”

 _Hahren_ ’s meaning was unclear, but _da’len_ did not hesitate to heed. He moved through their dim sanctuary as one dreaming, eyes fixed upon his toes. Once Thal’s body came within reach of her own, her firm touch guided his descent.

And so, the young man nearly tall enough to match her herculean mate found himself sitting sideways in the reassuring lap of Fen’Namas. Though she seemed ill, he had no fear of crushing – her legs and all the rest of her felt sturdy as a tree.

Her familiar aura was a mother’s smell to him. Though it did not put an end to his heart’s frantic screaking, it _did_ help. Calm washed him when her fingers slid into his hair, her anchored palm a’glow against his naked forehead as if checking for a fever. Reflexively, he closed his eyes.

The will of Fen’Namas eased into him through endless barriers. These barricades were near-impenetrable and very real, unwittingly cast and re-cast by the finest Guardmancer the world had ever known. So delicate was she, his walled-off mind perceived no probing. Only soothing touch. To truthseek in the endless mem’ries of the Dread Wolf was a knotty thing. Though his mind was discord bound by an impenetrable palisade of dragon bone, Fen’Namas read Thalis easily as robbing loose-jawed elfkits of their sapchew.

Una held her hand against her pupil’s entrenched suffering for but a lingering moment. Gentle smile unchanged, her fingers left his face to perch upon his knee. With her other hand, she led his cheek to rest upon the high-backed chair beside her – he was too tall to find her shoulder. Teacher likewise closed her eyes and turned her head to face him, their foreheads touching.

Her whisper was divine and all-consuming. “Thalis. Listen very carefully to what I have to say.”

Thalis nodded with the trust he’d only paid one other man in all his days. He was unaware that she’d read every page of his heart’s hidden memoir, watched every day he’d lived. Imagine the tormented young man’s awe. As he sat cosseted and safe, the world’s newest god began to speak his every secret worry. Her sweet breath was a gentle summer’s breeze against his face. _Oh,_ but her quiet voice was wise and tired.

“…The litany I made for you when you were just a boy. Recall it.”

Thalis nodded once again. Though robbed of words, his mind recited.

_A wise mage does not lose his mind to thoughts that do him ill or have no use. A wise mage takes life only to protect it. A wise mage finds his stillness in the transience of pain and permanence of self. A wise mage sees the truth._

“Strike it from your heart, _da’lath._ It does not suit you.”

His eyes came open, rightly jarred. When he found her unseeing, he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers once again. He heard her throat hum gentle.

“You pin the burden of your solitude on those you serve, sweet Thalis, when a frightened girl’s misguided teachings are to blame. **I** led you here. You are a healer, gentle darling, **not** a ruler. If you consign yourself to lead, your true heart will never know the light of day. Likewise, if you **run** from this, your mind will fester with regret. The end result will be the same - You may not realize it, child, but your talents cannot  _help_ but guard your hurting heart. You are stealing your own tongue,  _da'len_. Do you understand?”

A stunted sob made his response. Helpless, broken, _miserable._ As he shuddered in her arms, Una squeezed him tight and rocked him like a child. She kissed his salty lips the way a mother does.

“ _Ma’eth, ma’eth, da’len._ Your pain is _hahren’s_ fault. Hear my voice, and I will guide you out.”

As she kissed and held and waited, Thalis wept himself beyond exhaustion into clarity.  It was long and winding, the unpaved path from hurt to spent to lucid. In the time it took her brother to become receptive, young Veyla may have left or fallen fast asleep. When Thalis snuffed and wiped his oozing nose upon his sleeve, teacher stroked his hair and started lecturing.

“Though the Dalish _are_ a wounded people, your healing touch alone **cannot** restore them. Coddling as you do, you tax yourself and cause their broken bones to set askew. Step back and trust them. Guide the Dalish to self-govern as they used to. Expect more of them, _da’len,_ and watch how they surprise you. In no time, their independence will render your position obsolete.

“They are a _people,_ **not** an army. As such, you must guide them by example. Do not _command_ they treat all mothers equally; let them watch you blessing unbound pregnant bellies. If you would love our gentle kin across the river, _love them. **Openly.**_ Through watching you, your kin will learn to love the same. Use your influence to unite their souls across the river. Watch them, child, and laugh with joy as doubters turn to friends and blushing lovers.

“Tradition is our servant, not the other way around. **Never** let tradition come between your heart and love. Love, above all things, is _sacred._ **Yes,** Aaran and his followers will curse your heresy and chose to leave. Bless their backs, and let your people see you do it.

“Do these things, Thalis, and your people will be served. I will watch you walk from Keeping with a peaceful grace. For the first time in your stolen life, you will be _you_ and free. Can you see it?”

More than words; it _must_ have been. The absolution blooming in his tired heart was unlike anything he’d ever felt. Here was his soul again, sparkling ‘neath a crest of foam that marked the sand. The tide that ripped before now sweetly lapped. When the timid wisp took up that tireless refrain of _Look at me. **Look** at me. _ – Thalis did not weep. He simply nodded understanding as he cupped the cherished thing against his chest and tucked his chin to marvel.

He whispered like a child in the lap of Mercy. “I see it. _Oh,_ _hahren._ I can see it.”

“Good. Remember it when times are dark. Three things now, and I will let you rest. As you live your life with these new truths, _da’len,_ you must remember what I’ve taught you here today: Tradition is not sacred. The gods are not divine. Aaran stole Deshanna’s keystone from her neck while you were sleeping.”

Not numbness, then, but wonder. She afforded his exhausted mind no time to process. She mussed his growing hairstyle, whispering playful scandal in his ear. “Handsome Thalis, my quiet healer with a voice like rolling boulders. To _think_ I thought to match you with a lovely girl across the river.”

His tear-streaked cheeks went red. The secret would have lit him like a beacon if his feeling heart weren’t so _bereaved._ Una crooned at him, speaking with the mildness of a woman who thought  _nothing_ of the pain an unexpectedly abandoned heart could bring.

If Thalis only knew.

“There, _there._ Do not assume his heart uncaring. I cannot see his mind, _da’len,_ but I do not believe our friend would say _amatus_ lightly."

"You didn't see it,  _hahren._ He-" Choking, trying not to. "...He walked away."

"Because he _loves_ you, dear one. Would you be sitting here, all full of plans, if he _hadn't_ walked away?"

Silence. Shifting shoulders, scowling cringing misery.

She speaks again, more softly. "You see? Dorian is right – he cannot help you. He was a darling man to try. What he tears down, your stubborn under conscience will forever re-erect. Fix _yourself,_ my love, and all the rest will follow.”

Thalis sorely wanted to believe her. Though her guidence out of Keepery shone like gospel, in _this_ his wounded soul was not so easily persuaded.

She repeated. “It **will**  fix itself,  _da’len,_ if you do as I’ve said. You have everything you need, and I am always here to listen. Simply call to me beside the stream, as your sister did. Ah, and  _do_ be sweeter to him. Lord Pavus is a very sensitive man.”

The unchecked expression Thalis paid was _very_ Dalish. “I-…I don’t know how.”

Una gave his cheek the briskest pat she could, considering her own dead-beat exhaustion. _**Oh,** to sleep will be divine._ She guided him to stand, and so did she. She spoke lightly as stained fingers brushed the wrinkles from her robes – to give advice on love made Una beam. Thalis wiped his tears and stretched his neck. The forgotten bracelet brushed his ear and startled him.

“Watch the City Elves, _da’len_. Or watch Cole courting. Though he is still learning – ah! He is the _sweetest_ thing!”

Thalis squeezed the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes. “Cole’s _courtship_ plagues my ear with broken-hearted widows, _hahren._ I will…watch. Our cousins.”

“What, that business with the elfkit climbing in his lap at breakfast? That woman is still carping?”

“Yes.”

“A pity. The boy is better for Cole's love.”

This stillness borne of plans to follow, it was…bliss. When Thalis thought on Marli, panic did not grip him. He re-lived that nightmare just two mornings old, a tearful woman tugging at his sleeve and _begging_ him to snatch the giggling elfkit from the harmless _shemlen’s_ lap in front of everyone. The eyes of he who saved the wayward boy from burning, pained and angry. _Next_ time, Thal would simply squeeze her shoulder and advise the mother to resolve the problem on her own. Not once in life had notions such as this _occurred_ to him.

From now on, _everything_ would change.

As he stood daydreaming at her side, _hahren_ took the box of cold leftovers in her hands and shed the lid. Though it was in every way a modest gift, her weary face was obviously delighted.

“You are sweet to share the lunch he buys you. _Ma serannas,_ Grand Keeper – I’ve not eaten yet today, and I have never seen or tasted of Antiva. Let’s have the barrier down.”

Thalis nodded, wordless with his busy thoughts. At his behest, guarding energy dispersed against the Veil and their haven disappeared. Una pinched sauce-slicked pasta between three soiled fingers. When she tilted her head back and guided the dangling lot into her open mouth, Thalis lost his train of thought. He heard himself begin to snicker. If she heard, she did not react. She hummed with exhausted pleasure as she spoke around her food.

“ _Mmm, **thank** you._ With food like _this,_ I fail to comprehend the violence of our Antivan cousins. I suppose the city folk refuse to share.”

Thalis hiked from snickering to chuckle. “They call it carbonara, _hahren_.”

“Mm. It does me good to hear you laugh, _da’len,_ but what is funny?”

Out of nowhere, Veyla leaned her head on Una’s arm and spared him answering. One of _da’lenlin’s_ eyes was thickly lined with _shemlen_ kohl. Big brother made his mind up that he didn’t hate the look of it, even as he studied her and wondered at her interest in human beauty. Blind to his appraisal, Veyla yipped and waved a sheet of paper in the air above her head.

\---

Veyla popped up just as Una’s eyes took their third fruitless pass around the den.

_Vhenan. Where **are** you? Is Kirkwall **such** a trial? By the Dread Wolf, Solas, I am **tired …**_

“Varric’s _name-day?!_ No one said! _I’m_ going. Miss Una, are you going? When is it! Oh, don't say we missed it!”

"Who is Varric, _da'lenlin?"_

Una set her food aside and licked her fingers clean - the ink and powdered cuttlebone made _that_ somewhat unpleasant. She weakly took the invitation as Veyla grandstanded to Thalis on the topic of her dwarven friend. As Una looked the paper over, she _huh_ ’d with her mouth full. To answer _when,_ she placed her finger on the cryptic metal dial for reading Thedan dates that occupied one corner of her desk. Few were the Dalish who could boast the reading of the thing – The Inquisitor had Josephine to thank.

The party, she discerned and then announced, would happen on the morrow.

_Pity, old friend. I will be asleep. I must send my love to you tonight, old durgen'len getting older._

Just as she asked Veyla where she’d _found_ this invitation, a brand new missive appeared in Lady Lavellan's enchanted bird feeder. It was an insistently unassuming thing, folded more times than seemed necessary. As Veyla hooted with delight and ran to take it up, Una shut her blurry eyes and struggled in negotiations with her throbbing head.

“Who’s Oric?”

Una reached to snatch the letter out of Veyla's grabby hands, rifling through the index of her fading mind. _Oric, Oric…The page is empty? Ah._

“Grand Keeper, please. My eyes.”

His heretofore unwelcome touch of restoration promptly came. Though it did not _resolve_ her clouded vision, most definitely it helped. She heard him take a breath to speak concern upon assessing her unusual condition. One finger stopped him. As she read the frantic script, she remembered fully well who Oric was.

 

_Gentle Lady -_

_Landsmeet to impugn for violating prov 10_

_Depose Inqs._

_His M. cannot refuse_

_3rd th. of btd_

_Oric_

 

 

Una's placid face became a raging storm. She snapped into action, barking orders at the two of them as she barged from desk to dresser with the parchment in her hand.

“Grand Keeper, I require the services of Fernin’s scribe. Bring the boy to me. He needn’t pack. Veyla, fetch me an Emissary at **once.** ”

\---

As Thalis rushed to do her bidding, Veyla’s half-kohled eagle eyes kept Una’s back. The wanton thief had waited on this opportunity for _days._

As Una spoke and raged away, nimble fingers took a gamble one-in-seven. She pulled the right and middle drawer, and there they were – those expensive, hand-tied silken teabags Veyla overheard the chambermaids a’cluck about one early morning ‘fore the Fall.

Veyla’s face lit up with triumph as her pockets took a handful of the prize. Scot-free, she took to toes, shouting “Yes Ma’am!” as she scampered to comply.

She was quite certain Dorian would still be playing chess in Lace’s tent.


	40. Kinship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[If you wanted your freedom, you would take it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VimZXxz18SI)_   
>  _If you weren’t so fearful, you would **take** it._   
>  _If you didn’t have legs, you’d have nothing._   
>  _Nothing to lose? **That** is freedom._
> 
>  
> 
> You’d better watch what you say,  
> You better guard what you think –  
> They hold your future in dirtying names.
> 
> You’d better watch what you say,  
> You’d better guard what you think,  
> Or you could lose it.  
> \---
> 
> “Ma’nehn dareth.” = I am relieved to have you safe.  
> "Garas." = Come.  
> the Guide’s Reflection = Dirthamen is also known as Falon'Din's (the Guide's) Reflection.  
> \---

Though his ancient belly did not hunger quick as most, a fast near four days long left Solas _starving._ Several were the peddlers touting breakfast, both in Hightown and below. Though passing carts of steaming bread left the Dread Wolf salivating, today he traveled penniless. As cobble turned to muck beneath his feet, Solas swallowed back the slaver of his appetite and consigned his empty innards to abide.

Upon conclusion of this business, Fen’Harel would take a sorely needed day to hunt and clear his head. At the thought of it, his pointed steps grew brisk.

Though his mem’ry of the place was centuries old, the glyph-forming streets that veined Emerius remained unchanged. Solas knew  _full_  well the lot where Kirkwall’s human population tucked knife-eared undesirables away like one does a pen of stinking pigs. The muddy space that made the Alienage was once an auction field for trading Elvhen slaves.

While the City Elves of Kirkwall may consider themselves crowded  _now,_ back then a passing hawk could not assay the ground for bumping, writhing bodies. The population of the world was greater then; unsheltered scows bearing elves in tens of  _thousands_ scudded to and fro across the Waking Sea. Unloaded, these now nameless slaves would jostle barefoot in a tangled mass of skin and jutting bone. Those who survived the journey would be racked and starved and blistered by the sun. Diseases plaguing one ship’s chattel spread through the wretched throng like flame across the Silent Plains.

The auctions would drag on for days. Starvation took the lucky ones. Some were trampled, others succumbed to illness. Others still were made examples of, raped and martyred by the soulless men of The Black Cadre. Countless,  _countless_ were the ranks of those deceased upon the curs’d ground his earth-caked feet now tread. As Solas passed from glaring sun to shade beneath the timeworn portcullis, he said a silent prayer for each unlucky elf who clung to life enough to learn the manmade hells beyond the bidding square.

The great wall’s oppressive shade stretched half way ‘cross the Alienage. Untouched by morning sunshine, the mud between his toes nipped ancient flesh with chill. The telltale stench of poverty was thick and  _so_ familiar. Still, though he was deaf to it, the Alienage air was not devoid of laughter.

The ancient symbol of the slave revolt remained intact. When Fen’Harel beheld rebellion’s fading heraldry dripping red upon the wall of moldy stone, his thoughts ran black and vengeful. To this  _day,_  the northern devils traded slaves. Though he had ample cause to keep his pantheonic brethren locked away, Fen’Harel could never hope to overthrow a mage Empire alone.

No. He would not  _be_ alone. Be victory tomorrow or a cent’ry from now, Fen’Harel would see the slaves of The Imperium rise up and bear their bloodied masters to the ground. He  _would_  have the archon’s head upon a pike, and his own hand would drown the butcher’s sons and end his line.

He wondered.  _Could_  his grudgeless mate support his lust for justice?

“(…) Ignore me all y’like, stranger. Your noisy guts can hear me!”

A grinning  _asha_  blocked the Dread Wolf’s moony path and jarred him from his hostile reverie. The jagged scar that marked her cheek was, sadly, altogether common for a City Elf. She was wearing two thick gloves, the better to protect herself from heat. With insistent body language, she offered up a steaming mountain yam twisted in a papery cornhusk. A dozen more sat roasting on a grate-topped ember barrel to his left, beside the gate.

Once he recognized the situation, Solas didn’t skip a beat.

“Ah. Forgive my lacking manners. I’m afraid I haven’t – “

She rolled her eyes. Apparently,  _his_  poverty was obvious. “Just  _take_ it. You’ll pay me back someday.”

His smile was light and gentle. Roast sweetroot was an  _ancient_ treat, its caramelized aroma blissfully unchanged with time. As Solas pinched the rolled-up husk-ends in his fingers to accept the woman’s piping gift, his heart flooded with memories both fond and sad.

Her favor thus delivered, his stomach’s savior returned at once to tending roasting tubers. As she fussed, she watched his hand unwrap the treat with expert grace. He doubled back the outer shell to insulate his grip from burning. His cheeks tensed as he blew the thing to cool.

 _Oh,_  bitter trial of patience. Though the sweetroot smelled  _delicious,_ there were few things Solas hated more than scorch marks in his mouth.

_“Ma serannas, falon.”_

Her face quirked with surprise. She looked him up and down. “…You  _Dalish?_  You hold your sweetroot like a cityborn.”

As it served him, Fen’Harel concocted half-truths on the spot. He assumed an understated Dalish accent, quite certain that the woman hadn’t paid his prior statements in the Common Tongue any close attention. With o’er a year’s experience hanging on a Dalish woman’s every word, his impersonation was impressive.

 “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

When he raised his hand to gesture greeting, the braid that wrapped his wrist distracted his attentions. With the first mirth he’d felt all morning, Solas wondered  _just_ how vexed or entertained his golden mate would be to watch her Dread Wolf playing Dalish.

At the memory of her, Fen’Harel all but forgot the slights that boiled his blood all morning long. Staying cross with Una always  _was_  a challenge.

The woman gestured greeting in return, her every atom taking on a look of sympathy. “M’so sorry. For what – for what happened to your people. There’s no words for how terrible…”

His fading smile and doleful nod were not an act. “Thank you, cousin. You are very kind.”

She stared at him, she shook her head with pity. She did not ask his business, she did not nose about his lacking _vallaslin._  She shed her glove to clutch the flesh atop his shoulder. When she took to toes and pressed her sympathetic lips against his face, it warmed his brooding heart and set an edge upon his will to see these people freed from poverty’s oppression.

Her touch and closeness lingered. She meant him only kinship, he was _certain._

 _His_  intentions, since he’d happened ‘cross this woman, were of small talk. Assessment of the woman’s attitude towards living in this squalid, stinking Alienage. Solas knew full well - one cannot  _free_  a soul who christens prison home. Hometown pride shone obvious in ever-flick'ring candles circling their  _vhenadahl._  As the would-be liberator glanced o’er board-sore hovels, he questioned with a tone inviting banter.

“And  _your_  people, my friend? I walk through  _shemlen_ grandeur and arrive to find you thriving here in poverty. Anyone can see you love your home, but tell me - do your kin not want for something better?”

Her lighthearted response was recitation older than the sea. A denial-shrouded truth that, if embraced, empowered helpless folk to walk the line twixt perseverance and despair.

“You’re a sweet thing, Dalish. There’s  _plenty_  have it worse than us.”

“And what of those who have it better?”  _The grass is always greener, Fen’Harel._

At his words, the woman shrugged dismissal. She gave his shoulder a firm pat as she stepped back to her business. He felt no smugness when her closing statement made him right.

“It’s like they say, stranger. The grass is always greener on the other side.” She pointed east, and up. “Y’think  _they’re_ happy, love, putzing ‘round and trying to impress their neighbors? My girls have shoes, and they know what’s important.”

Another timeless idiom of coping.  _Oh,_ how downtrodden platitudes enflamed the Dread Wolf’s heart. The player in him maintained a cordial nature, though Fen’Harel was once again morose.

Mildness as a shroud. His Dalish accent may have slipped a bit. “Your pride speaks well of you. However - You speak of grass,  _falon,_ as if you’ve ever seen a blade of it. One wonders what your girls will deem important when they’re paying  _prima nocta.”_

The tubermonger’s laugh was full of life, astoundment lacking ire. Her tone was of endearment. “You Dalish folk are  _really_  something else! The shite that comes out of your mouths...!  _Prima nocta_ hardly happens here in Kirkwall. The Viscount won’t permit it.”

 _**Hardly?** _ _If your daughters are as beautiful as you, scar-faced asha, methinks your laugh foreswears a dreaded fear._

As fate would have it, their conversation took a most productive turn.

“Hoi, speaking of Dalish!” As she spoke, she waved behind him. He did not turn around. When he perceived a telltale Dalish lilt, Solas understood just why this  _Merrill_  festered ‘neath Compassion’s milky skin. Her heavy accent rivaled even Veyla’s.

“Morning, Senna! Ooo, new boyfriend? Bald is good; can’t complain about the mole then, can he?”

This was a daily ritual for them, it seemed. Fen’Harel observed, his presence passive. Senna’s hand left tending to accept Merrill’s offered coin. Senna shoved the Dalish woman’s forehead with two fingers, a wordless scold for lacking tact.

Merrill responded, “What?”

_Curse you, Compassion, for indulging this feckless woman. I doubt her outspoken opinion carries half the weight you think among the Cityborn._

The grousing Fademancer took a long-awaited bite –  _delicious,_ flesh like sugared butter in his mouth. As he chewed, Senna’s face went serious. She jingled Merrill’s coin between them. “He’s Dalish, Merrill, and he couldn’t pay. That makes him  _your_ boyfriend for the day.”

Suddenly, Solas existed. Blinded by a yearning for her kin, eyes that pegged Cole’s secret from a mile away were oblivious to Fen’Harel’s identity.

“He –  _you’re – your_ ** _face,_** _are you from - ?!”_

Merrill shoved her finger in his face, gaping. Solas swallowed his indulgence, cleared his throat, and answered.

_“Aneth ara, lethall – ”_

Tears sprang to Merrill’s eyes. She grabbed his clothes, she  _shook_ him, she hollered in his face. Fen’Harel allowed one revolution ‘fore his back went rigid and denied her hands control.

She did not ask his clan.

“Clan Sabrae!  _Tell_ me! Are they there with you?  _How many?”_

Merrill knit her brow and stared at him, her eyes intense with need. Senna’s eyes were on him too, and others still were watching from beneath the painted  _vhenadahl_.

Aside from Una’s passing observations as she brooded on the dais, Fen’Harel knew  _nothing_  of the various surviving clans. It was wholly irrelevant. To him, their tragedies were no less terrible with lacking names.

“These days,  _lethallin,_ to be of Dalish blood is kin enough.”

Such words were alien to she who held clan paramount, as they had been to every Dalish ear. He watched her face go blank with shock. Their audience of mournful lookers-on continued growing. Solas was accustomed to being stared at, but  _never_ with this undertone of sympathy.

Merrill’s chin quivered. She was still clutching him. Her elbows came against his ribs as she collapsed to weep against his chest. He held his snack protectively aloft, his free hand found her back. Her words were meant for him, but their well-meaning audience  _did_  coo remorse.

 _“I should have been there to_ **_protect_ ** _them!”_

“Few mages lived.That you survive is deed enough.”

Her words rang melancholy ‘gainst his chest. “You’re a mage.”

“I am beyond fortunate.”

_“…Ma’nehn dareth, lethallin.”_

_“Ma’nehn dareth_.”

Merrill sniffed and moved away. She wordlessly paid for him, taking sad-eyed Senna’s proffered breakfast. The faintest inclination of her head then beckoned him to follow.

_“Garas.”_

Merrill shed tears as she walked, and none would dare to blame her. Most mortal souls he’d met gave raw emotions wider berth – not here. The only walk that wrought more morning greetings was at Una’s side ‘cross the parade grounds of Tarasyl'an Te'las. Solas kept her pace and paid respectful nods to seeming endless sympathetic salutations, taking in the Alienage in all its painted pride.

By the time they reached the door to Merrill’s ramshackle abode, Fen’Harel was rolling breakfast’s empty casing. He dragged his fingers ‘gainst the hull to shed his touch of sticky syrup. Like most portals on this welcome sunny morning, hers was gaping propped.

“ _Andaran atishan,_ brother. T’was clean yesterday, I swear.”

“You have no fear of theft?”

“Ach, no. They’re good people. Even the more-…troubled ones. Besides, I’m afraid I’ve nothing much to steal. The poor soul who thinks to take my candlestick must need it more than I do.”

Solas nodded as his muddy steps ascended old and squeaking boards. One of her stairs was snapped in twain. Judging from the lacking mat and endless footprints tracking ‘cross the floor, there was no need for Fen’Harel to wipe his feet.

Though still gently weeping, Merrill began bickering as she mounted the steps behind him.

“So. Cole sent  _you_  instead? If he thinks I’ll listen to you, just because you’re Dalis –  _Oop!”_

So preoccupied was she, Merrill walked right into him. Solas stood frozen just beyond her open doorway, staring ‘cross the room. The sticky wrapper lay forgotten in the crusts of floor-tracked mud beside his feet.

“O, sorry – didn’t see you there.”

Merrill recognized the object of her visitor’s attentions at once. She came to stand beside him, wiping mournful moisture from her face as she shared what she perceived as admiration for the ornate mirror lacking in reflection. Her proud tongue held out hope for camaraderie with a fellow Dalish mage.

“You know it,  _lethallin?_ Is it not  _beautiful?_  More precious than ever now, with everything we’ve lost. If I can only make it  _work,_ I-…I can save our people,  _lethallin._ I can take us home.”

His eyes, half-dumb with disbelief, traced the winding path of twisting metal only once ‘fore sliding closed.

_Mythal, lend me your grace. The clodpate thinks she’s salvaged an eluvian._

Solas longed to pass  _eternities_ without beholding yet another reclaimed  _shivenal_ of the Forgotten _._ He’d seen one just a year ago, tucked away with other Elvhen relics in The Winter Palace. The place had been a  _trove_ of wonders, likewise monstrous and divine. While Una’s dancing kept the court enraptured, her scowling servant snuck away to pulverize the thing.

This time, he would have an audience.

Without a word of explanation, Fen’Harel began to move.  Deaf to her protests, he snagged Merrill by the arm and tossed her out her own front door. When she made to storm the stairs, his barrier refused her. Though Merrill’s skill was obvious in the  _shivenal’s_  misguided reconstruction, even Fen’Namas herself could never hope to best the Dread Wolf’s guarding ward. Where Varric banged and soundless screamed as Solas brought his tortured lover back to life, Merrill stood beyond and stared with dawning recognition.

\---

 _“HEY! You can’t just –_ **_By the Drea – … … … !”_ **

Once she realized just  _who_ he was, Merrill didn’t waste the blood on futile casting. She merely stood there in the mud, staring speechless through the glimmering barrier that blocked her open door. If not for years spent at Hawke’s side, the fearful Dalish mage would surely tremble.

Her cousins were  _already_ curious about the visitor; all ears were trained toward Merrill’s little home. Naturally, when Merrill stumbled shouting out her door and turned to gape, a concerned crowd snapped into being around her. Loving neighbors gasped and clucked like fretting chickens, asking in protective unison after her well-being. Her shoulders were not wide enough for all the hands that sought her.

Inside, the stranger brought one hand high o’er his head. Then came some inorganic smell, erosive and metallic. The air began to ring. High-pitched and climbing higher still, vibrating,  _deafening._  As one, those assembled stilled and watched his back. Those with sense shoved fingers in their ears. When Merrill’s open windows shattered inward ‘gainst the translucent ward that locked her home, the growing congregation cried alarm and paid the house a wider berth.

His broad shoulders blocked their view of the  _shivenal’s_ implosion into nothing, but his audience felt  _something._  Impact immaterial, an airborne dragon felled a'ground without a body. A lurching pressure in their lungs and bellies like a violent clap of screeching thunder. Those who moved to save their ears too late would hear the shattering for  _days._

By and large, those gathered cowered ‘til turmoil turned to stark tranquility. Merrill raised her eyes in time to see the Dread Wolf disappear. As he went, so did the barricade that kept her from her home.

He re-materialized ‘fore Senna finished mewling, “Oh,  _Merrill!_ What's he done? Your pretty  _mirror!”_

Numbness, shock and terror. He was on her doorstep. He was moving, coming  _closer,_ looking at  _her._  Others  _tried_  to pull her back, but Merrill’s legs were palsied stiff with fright. Senna stood beside her, glowering at Solas with the fierceness of a most beloved friend.

When Fen’Harel held out a book between them, Merrill was too petrified to move. He waited, and still nothing. His eyebrow hiked. His sigh was long and low. His quiet words, though meant for her, reached every Cityborn in Kirkwall.

“Ignorance is doubly tragic ‘mongst talented. Read, daughter of the Dales, and realize your folly. Your curs’d mirror was no  _eluvian._ Even if it  _were,_  the realm of Elvhenan is gone.”

Senna squeezed Merrill ‘round the shoulders, growling at the man.

 _“You_ aren’t Dalish.”

“Nor did I ever claim to be.”

“What have you  _done_ to her!”

Solas answered as he bent to brush dried mud from Merrill’s doorstep. All gathered watched him place the tome with loving care.

“I have freed her from a most unfortunate mistake. That she fears me is no malady of my design.”

He straightened up, he looked to Merrill once again.  _Now,_  at least, her eyes showed she was listening.

“It is a noble undertaking, stewardship of heritage. Take care, lest you uphold the same misguided histories your kin have kept for centuries.

“Now. As to why I’ve come. Though Lady Lavellan  _would_  admire your sanguineous talents, by no means is her offered amnesty compulsory.

“Our Emissary tells me you’ve been meddlesome. He will call again. Deny his invitation, if you wish. By all means, retain your  _vallaslin._  Though his appetites are curious, Dirthamen is not the cruelest of my brothers.

“However. For the love of your cousins,  _Dali’len,_  and as payment for the favor I have rendered you today, let our Emissary speak his piece. I believe your friends will find him kind. Among the Cityborn of Ferelden, the young man is notoriously well-liked.  _Dareth shiral_.”

Abruptly, Fen’Harel was done and leaving. The mystified assembly parted quick and clean. Only then did Merrill find her tongue.

“Falon’Din.”

Solas stopped. He did not turn around, but he did e’er so slightly tilt his hairless head. Merrill clarified, her voice tremulous with shock.

“My  _vallaslin,_   _harellan._ It honors Falon’Din.”

Fen’Harel’s amus’d chuckle set a crack in the foundation of everything she knew.  _“Does it?_  Do enlighten the Guide’s Reflection, if ever you should meet. Ah, I doubt you will.”

That night, as Merrill’s single candle lit her reading of his proffered truths about the mirror she’d spent a lifetime saving, her foundation went from cracked to crumbling.

\---

If not for Una’s influence, Merrill would be dead. Though he was much a chang’d man, to be so kind to one so ignorant made Solas  _gag._

 _ **Ahh,**_ but how the longed for hunt did mend. Virility knew no pinnacle past rending flesh with teeth. Consideration for his sleepless mate fell wayward as the Dread Wolf stalked and killed well beyond the fall of night. T’was very much a  _needed_  thing.

Finely fettled and a’gleam with perspiration, Fen’Harel appeared in Mercy’s den. He tossed the clothes he held aside, the orb as well. Senses heightened from his recent transformation, he recognized at once the absence of his mate. Well-rested gears began to turn as Solas stepped into their stream to bathe, wearing ‘naught but ancient teeth around his neck.

Though he wondered, Solas did not worry. She’d only quaffed the stuff for – what was it, now? Four. Four short days. The half-life of each dose was long. The missives ‘round her desk appeared  _quite_  sorted. She’d been tending station, then. Perhaps, grown restless, his sleepless Lady walked the woods?

A sultry chuckle as he gained the grassy shore, ablutions brief. As he donned the robes he’d set aside that morning to begin his hunt afresh, the Dread Wolf’s thoughts were  _not_ of Una’s sorely needed lessons.


	41. Pyromanic Reverie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Gentle. You watch me walk into darkness over and over, and you always worry. Thank you. But ...this isn’t about that."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDrSih2Xrts)
> 
> In the middle of a house,  
> In the middle of nowhere,  
> Bodies glide from room to room...
> 
> _**Heuugh-** _   
>  _**I hate these walls!** _   
>  _They speak to me!_   
>  _"Hey, skin-like-a-doll,_   
>  _You're no friend_   
>  _Of my family!"_
> 
> Catch that light, yeah,  
> It falls in subtle patterns,  
> Crawls in and tells them when they're time is up  
> And when it's over.
> 
> He takes her hand,  
> And he kisses her cheek.  
> She's a _doll,_ oh yeah,  
>  She's his spitting image.
> 
> Where've you gone?  
> You're still a part of me!  
> Hey, skin-like-a-doll,  
> You're no friend  
> Of my family!
> 
> Catch that light, yeah,  
> It falls in subtle patterns,  
> Crawls in and tells them when their time is up  
> And when it's over.
> 
> When it's over.
> 
> When it's over.
> 
> Now, it's **over.**  
>  \---

It was a busy morn for everyone. The Inquisitor sat wrangling piles of correspondence whilst her mate played Doomsday Dalish in the mud. Dorian and Lace threw up their relenting hands as the tongue-tied Keeper’s Keeper walked the river for a moping nap.

Whilst giggling Veyla gasped his human name and played her pleasures in the shimm’ring sun, Compassion grappled witless and hysteric. In a last ditch effort to sequester the monstrosity that tore his flesh asunder, the one-time spirit yanked poor Varric deep into the backwash of a waking nightmare he had _never_ meant to share.

At once, the pair abandoned Lusine’s crimson carpeting for darkness cramped and creaking. The deshyr’s freshly bitten tongue wept salty blood, and there was naught to do but drink it. He felt the blooming lad he fancied son go stiff and silent underneath him, save the frenzied breath Cole fought and failed to hold. Though Varric longed to soothe his halestone-addled charge, he held his swollen tongue for fear of the unknown. Where _were_ they, exactly? Were they safe? Would someone hear them?

Contortion was the name. Cole’s sharp knees were digging Varric’s back somehow, though the dwarf was still atop him. Varric’s face was pressed against a surface – wood, sanded wood – and Cole’s head occupied the wall beside him.

_A **box?**_

This was a hiding place for slender folk. Just as Varric parsed the nature of their lockup, a latch grown weak with time retired against the pressing burden of his stocky frame. As the doors banged noisily aside, the deshyr spilled into an unfamiliar room.

As Varric fell, the place passed in a flash – shady daylight peeping through the board-sore walls and ceiling, weeds and sapling trees a’creeping through the weather-rotted floor. When Varric hit the ground, he hit it _hard._ Though rolling with a fall was Varric’s game, no amount of tumbling saves a man from falling through a plane of weakened wood. The splintering impact scraped his thighs and tore his trousers. When a thick support beam ‘cross his back “broke” Varric’s fall, he choked and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come. _Excruciating._

For _some,_ this dilapidated shanty was a loving family home with his’try generations old. This year’s raccoon and her cubs held residence in the foundations, as it were, and they did _not_ appreciate the dwarven arse that wrecked their stately parlor. Where lesser vermin may well run and hide, _this_ Orlesian washing bear was nothing but outspoken. While Mother Coon lambasted him with chattering, Varric fought the blotches in his eyes and…well, he took a moment. His spine felt cricked, it hurt to breathe, and Cole was in no state to offer aid.

Mother’s riot act was lengthy. She did not desist ‘til Varric, stiff and cursing, extracted himself from the splintering crater. When he planted two hands at the bottom of his back and tried to straighten up, he found it nigh impossible. Between the fall in Lusine’s kitchen and _this_ little jaunt, his spine was well-done toast. He cursed again, resigned to stoop and hold his back like father used to do.

_Maker’s **balls,** I’m getting old. So much for birthday limbo._

A glance around the long-abandoned hovel. Yes, they were alone. Just as well, since Lusine refused _all_ weapons at the door. It made him antsy, an undertaking such as this without Bianca at his side.

Cole’d pulled the wardrobe shut. Varric hardly caught Cole’s whimper for the buzzing in his ears. As Varric eyed the weathered bureau from across the gap, he ruefully considered barring both the doors until the dive was done. Three hours now, five at the _very_ most. At least the poor kid wasn’t hollering and thrashing anymore. He longed to leave Cole be, to let him ride it out in relative placidity.

But Varric _had_ to take that stone away.

Varric sighed reluctant through his nose as he approached, circumventing the floor’s newest aperture with careful toes. A creaking hinge, pinpricked pupils lost in glacial blue illuminated by a crack of light. Cole’s face, once flushed, was deathly pale. Still, his visage was bespeckled with the deshyr’s blood.

Cole’s clenching fist was telling; he still grasped the stone. Varric placed his upturned palm beside Cole’s gloveless hand with fingers spread. The deshyr was no stranger to bargaining with wild-eyed friends mid-plunge, and more than once in youth _he’d_ been the wayward diver. Varric’s second hand abandoned bolstering his back to touch Cole’s arm, lest the befuddled scoundrel suddenly abscond.

Gently, _so_ gently. “Kid. Give me what’s in your hand.”

A silence borne of lacking recognition, eyes that stared but barely saw. _Maker,_ but Cole looked uncomfortable and cramped. The Kid was flexible, he’d give him that. Varric tried again, fingertips resting at the seam of Cole’s tight fist. His words were slow and clear.

“You’re holding something, Cole. Give it to me.”

Compliance brought knee-weakening relief. Moving slow as not to startle, Varric tucked the trinket in the pocket of his now-torn trousers as he backed away and left Cole to his hiding.

* * *

By and by, Compassion’s breaths came even in Cole’s childhood haven. With gradual lucidity came restlessness, amalgamated with indicia of his dive. Not blackness now, but disembodied color. Not inward terror now, but veneration aimed without. When looking back on this, his first experience with substances designed to influence, his memories would always start with just how  _big_ it felt to rub his thumbpad on the buckle of his boot.

He unfolded in a spaced-out trance without ever making up his mind to do so. One at a time, his soles abandoned pressing high on the opposing wall to find the floor. Though lacking much in faculty, Cole balanced on the beam and crossed Varric’s jagged pit as though he did it every day.

Varric was watching. He was seated ‘gainst the wall beside the wardrobe, ears tireless in their protective vigil. Once Cole safely crossed the gap, his companion quietly spoke. Before Varric could get words out, Cole was marveling at something out the tiny broken window. Brittle shards of glass went _crunch_ beneath his boots.

“Hey. You alright?”

Cole’s response was slow in coming. Though he sounded tired and miles away, the way he used to, his meaning kept its clarity. “I could hear. Blurred, but…you. Don’t blame yourself, Varric. I ate before you told me.”

Cole’s pause was brief. Varric, for once, was unsure exactly what to say.

“…It grew.”

“What grew, Kid?”

As he spoke Cole pushed off from the windowsill in slow motion, turning to face his friend. Constricted eyes explored the sagging, sun-pierced planks that made their ceiling.

“Her tree. …Am I asleep?”

A stunted chuckle. “You’re stoned, but you’re awake.”

Cole looked positively _mystified._ He walked from one room to the next, exhausted floor complaining ‘neath his feet. Varric’s back, in no great rush to bear his weight, convinced the dwarf to keep his seat. He watched Cole disappear from sight and held his questions for a later time; though the tenderfoot _was_ surfacing, his dive was not quite over. No sense in seeking levelheaded answers yet.

The curtains Bunny burned left naught but cracking rod behind. The table ‘neath that second window still had legs, and it was standing. The broken plates Cole’s mother took a beating for remained.

Father’s bedroom _had_ no windows. Though the walls were compromised throughout Cole’s childhood home, that room remained the darkest. Compassion haunted the doorway of his borrowed mem’ries, but he _dare_ not step inside. The door was on the ground. Both years ago and in nightmares e’er repeating, Cole had _kicked_ it down.

Bright eyes never made it to the bloodstains on the floor. One glance at the vermin-tattered bed with springs a’splay like ruin, and Compassion turned his heels. Determined footfalls reverberated through the floorboards of the tiny house. He gained the room, he gained the stoop, and he was _out._ More and more himself with every step, bare fingers deftly pulled his trusty fire striker from its home astride his belt. (Though he traveled much more oft than not among the magically inclined, Cole learned early on to _always_ go prepared.)

Varric heard him leave. Remarkable, how quickly the enfeebled dwarf found his feet when he was of a mind. He crossed the weed-shot floor and stepped outside to find Cole kneeling at one corner of the house, his every fiber focused on the task of striking steel to chert. His char cloth was alight, and the ruins of his former life left Cole no want of kindling. When flames began to lap the crumbling house, Cole sat back on his haunches with the _strangest_ little scowl of satisfaction.

Varric watched and wondered. He’d seen Cole make that face before. “I’m with you, Kid. This place is an eyesore. …Ah, mind if I ask what’s going on?”

Cole found his feet and backed away, eyes never parting from the slowly spreading flames. He stood at ease with arms across his chest, seemingly content to stand and watch the building burn _all_ day.

“I’m doing what you taught me.” A chuckle, brief and confidential. “It’s…good.”

“…Huh.”

The mismatched pair watched the growing fire in silence for an hour or more – one stood, one aching stooped. When the smoke began to billow, Mother Coon was left with no choice but surrender. She marched all three cubs _straight_ to their hollowed annex down the hill, muzzle high with unrelenting pride. Miles south, a self-appointed crier in the charming mountain town of Val Chevin insisted _she_ was first to spot the sooty smudge on the horizon. Cole would never meet her, but the child was his third cousin once removed.

Infernal heat had pushed them further back. They stood in thick of forest, Cole now leaning sideways on a tree while flames danced in his eyes. Every time a ceiling beam would crash, he’d swell with satisfaction pure and tangible. Only after Cole chuckled short and airy did Varric take the liberty of interrupting pyromanic reverie.

After all, they _both_ had crap to do.

“Listen, Kid. Where, exactly, have you stranded us with that sodding rock of yours?”

Compassion tore his gaze away from crackling fire to blink at Varric. Though red from smoke, his lucid eyes no longer evidenced his fateful chocolate prayer.

Spoken in a daze. “Oh. We aren’t stranded, Varric. I can take you home.” Distracted, then, and mostly to himself. “But I don’t understand how I could bring us _here_ …I guess Cole did, to keep us safe. To help me fix it.” Whisper, "Thank you."

Dwarven eyebrows hiked. “You don’t know where we are?”

“Oh. No, I do. But it can’t take me to a place I’ve never been, not without a waystone.” Cole extended his hand, beckoning with his fingers. Varric hesitated, fingers drumming on his wood-raked thigh.

“What’s the capital of Rivain?”

Cole cocked his head, obviously puzzled. “Dairsmuid. Why?”

Ignored. “What color was Bernie’s dress this morning?”

“…Bernie? I don’t know a – “

“Bernadette.”

Cole’s lips went tight, and his voice dropped an octave. Still, he was holding out his hand to claim his property. “Mauve.”

 _“Sheesh,_ Kid. Purple would’ve done it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you – “

Cole dropped his hand and rolled his eyes as Varric started teasing. He turned back to watch the fire as he spoke, his interrupting voice flat with finality. “Well, you’d be wrong.”

“Now, now. Don’t get _touchy._ I can’t hand you this thing without knowing you’re sober.”

Varric tossed, and Cole caught without looking. Cole’s little smirk was half-apologetic, but he said nothing else. Without another word or backward glance, Cole delivered Varric to his quarters at The Hanged Man.

From that day on, Compassion never feared himself again. It was one thing to have Fen’Harel _insist_ that Cole was now impervious to spiritual corruption. It was another thing entirely to live the nightmare and emerge a man intact; two arms, two legs, and smiling.

As for the rest? With the purging fire, Cole’s nightmares ceased to be. From that day on, Compassion hardly gave Cole’s past _or_ his a second thought. _Years_ from now, when Compassion bounced Cole’s children on his lap to hear them squeal with glee, his heart would sicken at the mem’ry of that wretched man who never loved his family. This dark thought would happen only once, and their mother’s stealthy kiss beneath his ear would see it quickly pass.

* * *

Varric collapsed into his desk chair with dramatic, groaning gusto.  _Ahh,_ it eased his back. Cole made to rush away, but Varric stopped him.

“Hold up there, Kid! We need to talk.”

Cole stopped and looked at Varric, his over-stimulated mind clearly in ten places all at once. Varric knew the halestone drill; the dive complete, Cole would now run himself ragged with adrenaline before sleeping for a day.

Varric _should_ know, as he used the stuff religiously to fuel his literary pursuits.

_“It’s only an addiction if you’re running from your problems, Hawke.”_

_Snort! “You’re so full of shit.”_

Cole had had a cruddy morning, no doubt of that. Ah, but this lesson could no longer wait. Varric steeled himself and tried to make it quick, because that's what fathers do.

“About what?”

“First off, do we need to talk about the… _demon_ thing? Halestone doesn’t lie, Kid. I’ve seen good dives and bad dives, but _that_ was something else.”

The denial of Cole’s shaking head was firm and sure. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Smile.

A nod, and he smiled back. “Good. Second, you owe me an apology. I nearly bit my tongue off, and my back is shot. At this rate, my nameday will be pudding cups and bingo.”

No face could wear remorse more handsomely. Cole’s words were quick and anxious; Varric could almost hear Cole’s pulse a’bounding with frenetic energy. “I’m sorry, Varric.” Then, bashfully, “Bernadette was telling me your nameday is tomorrow. You didn’t say! I don’t have a gift…”

“ _Oh,_ you don’t know? I don’t _do_ gifts, Kid. Not a big ‘stuff’ guy. I do _favors._ Want to hear yours now? Save you the wait in line?”

“The wait? In line?”

“Bet your breeches. Stretched clear around the corner last year.”

“Varric…I don’t think that’s how birthdays are supposed to work.”

“You want to wait in line, or not?”

Skeptical, hesitant. As well he should be. “…No…?”

“Congratulations. After Una’s fancy shindig, you’re the Kirkwall deshyr’s hand and heir.”

Nonplussed, dumbstruck. Cole rubbed behind his neck. Only then did he realize he’d lost his hat today.

“Varric. I can’t _do_ that. The City Elves still need my help.”

No one drove a bargain harder than the deshyr. He squinted as he spoke, arches lifting up to find familiar purchase on his desk. His back cracked, _ahh,_ he sighed and settled.

 _“Pshh!_ Let _Goldy_ handle that, now that she’s up and at ‘em. _She’s_ going to live forever, Kid. Sods like you and me? We’re getting older every day.”

“But I – “

“C’mon, Kid. What’s she pay you?”

At that, Compassion grew a mite indignant. _“Pay_ me? Nothing! She doesn’t _need_ to! I just want to help!”

Varric’s bootheel nudged a package on the corner of his desk. He sucked his teeth before he drawled response. “Brishen sent a custom order up today. Said _I_ paid to rush it.” Quietly, “You really don’t need money, huh? You’re a bigger man than most.”

Cole’s cheeks flushed, and he cast his eyes away. He was nauseous and _embarrassed_ , plagued by sudden guilt the likes of which he’d never felt before. He nearly quivered as he muttered, “S, sorry…”

“Hey, _hey._ Don’t get your feelings hurt, Kid. You’re like a son to me. You know I don’t give a nug’s ass about the money. That’s beside the point. Here.”

 _Chink!_ Out of nowhere, Varric tossed a key down on the varnished wood between them. “You can have my spare apartment off the docks in Val Royeaux.” Bitterly, Varric added, “Maker knows _I_ don’t need it anymore.”

Cole stared at the key, beyond bewildered. Varric filled the void with spelling out the gritty little details for the young man’s taxing mind.

“You don’t _have_ to say yes, Kid, but don’t say no today. Just take the key and think it over. Deal?”

A wordless nod. Cole took the key and eyed it like a snake before he stuffed it in his pocket. With the posture of a beaten dog, he turned towards the stairs.

“Cole.”

When Varric used Cole’s name, he earned his eyes immediately.

“The war is over, Kid. No man can live in fairy land forever.”


	42. The Flowers are Not Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sweet babe with your passion for knowledge and lore, if only I could tell you who you kneel before. How excited would you be? Less terrified than I, surely, with your exacting young mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar’valunin = "Ad libitum/At my pleasure/As I please"  
> UON = "Unless Otherwise Noted"  
> APU = "As Per Usual"  
> \-------

Proceedings of Namadahlan. Archived this eve of 8 Molioris, 9:43 Dragon.

Breakfast attendance: 429 City/ ~~673~~ 674 Dale (self included)

Fare: (See previous)

Noteworthy attendants:  (Firsts accompanying UON)

                Grand Keeper Thalis Lavellan

                Keeper Fernin Tillahnnen (unusually tardy, see rev.)

                […]

                Keeper Arban Ghilain

                Amia, Hahren of Amaranthine

Noteworthy absentees:

                Lady Una Lavellan

                Fen’Harel/TDW (APU)

                Grand First Aaran Lavellan (APU)

                Utpar, Hahren of Denerim

 

Dinner attendance: 23 City/612 Dale (self included)

Fare: (See previous)

Noteworthy attendants: (Firsts accompanying UON)

                Keeper Fernin Tillahnnen (first to arrive)

                […]

                Keeper Dal’etha Rhenaris

                Keeper Arban Ghilain

Noteworthy absentees:

                Lady Una Lavellan

                Grand Keeper Thalis Lavellan

                Fen’Harel/TDW (APU)

                Grand First Aaran Lavellan (APU)

                Utpar, Hahren of Denerim (APU)

                Amia, Hahren of Amaranthine (APU)

  ~~Thoughts~~

Observations

→Keepers Rhenaris and Ghilain arrive together with wet hair. Resolution →  clan rivalry? Clan Ghilain entrusted ceremonial relic, valunin of Andruil (“The Hunter’s Pleasure,” pendant, blessed hunting), to Clan Rhenaris, 8:11 Dragon. “Misplaced” by Keeper F. Rhenaris, 8:12 Dragon. Relic → unrecovered.

→As previously observed, evening meal → private custom for City Elves. Malice doubtful; see breakfast attendance. Uncertain of food source. No hunting skills apparent. Emissary? TDW?

→City/Dale integration nonzero but stagnant. Intermingling mostly adolescents, some others. I.e., most City dinner attendants →  adolescents.

→Lately, Grand Keeper not at dinner?

 

Ar’valunin 

Dirthamen, see fit to bless these pages.

Today marks six months since The Dalish Fall. Fen’Harel still hides. Our Lady speaks fondly of him. Like her timid children, we watch her and we wait. I cannot confirm it but, I hear she walks the camps and speaks to those she passes. When she neglects to break her bread with us, we sulk like weaning kits. 

 On the Grand Keeper’s cautionary word from days ago, Fernin and the others are preparing for departure. No new news of his plans.

Many wish to leave. Some choose to stay behind and keep Our Lady’s side, like me. Others are not sure. Though the choice divides us, on one thing all Dalish can agree: The White Wood creeps like rashvine underneath our naked skin.

(There are those who say their vallaslin burns like fresh every night. It was not like that for me, but as you know, my face was freed by hand. I wonder?)

Though Thalis makes no further mention of decamping, Aaran is hard at work to see it done. At his command, hunters cure their game for the impending journey ‘cross the Charbarren.

We are lucky for the game. There is nothing else. The timber here is dead and hard as rock. Aravel construction is a nightmare – Today, I heard Fernin's best saw snap like all the rest. It’s true, the fracture cracks the air for miles before it bounces back. Though our blacksmiths do their best to mend the saws and axes in their makeshift furnaces, each time they just break easier than before. In spite of this, Aaran and his crew push ever onward. Whether they are driven by their Dalish sense of industry or Stubbornness is not for your impartial scribe to say.

(I sometimes wonder whether Aaran would have been a better Keeper. Other times, I don’t.) 

Our craftsmen pray to June for raw ironbark and better trees. Our herdsmen pray to Ghilan'nain for halla, for what good are hard-won aravels without the beasts that pull them? 

We try for home, for remnants. Our scouts return with only ash and teeth. All land we know is dead. The Emissaries cannot take us to the untapped woodlands farther north.

Three times now, I’ve heard reports of half-starved halla catching sight of us and running like the wind. Some say the halla fear the omen of our naked faces. They say it is The Dread Wolf’s newest trick, to steal our vallaslin and scare our beasts away. They cite his age old war with Ghilan’nain to claim all halla for himself. No one confronts Our Lady with these rumors.

[The author skips three lines, guilt and fear apparent in his penmanship-defiling haste – ] 

_Those halla are just frightened and confused, like us. I do not blame the god that set me free and saved my people. I believe Fen’Harel means this sterile forest as a kindness – we know his ways are tricky. He writes a message in the never-fruiting springtime of this place, and in the wood that never yields. _

_To ply The Old Ways ‘gainst The Changed World is futility. The world we want is fantasy. The Arla'Numinan is real._

_Dirthamen, see fit to guard my secrets lest they ruin me._

_\- S.Tillahnnen_

_PS. The flowers are not dying._

* * *

The Dalish marked not dates, but Soferim _did_ track them. Dirthamen alone knew where he gleaned  _that_ shemlen skill. 

Keeper Fernin’s self-taught annalist was an outspoken elf, known to stick and pick on details petty and mundane. Though his craftsmanship was subject to the limits of his resources, the young elf was rightly proud of both his papers and his inks. He built a paper sieve himself, through trial and error. To _him,_ each handmade pulpy sheet was treasured as the hist’ry it contained. (A shame, then, that the timber of _Namadahlan_ refused to pulp for him.)

Soferim was also quite particular regarding his location. Both privacy and protecting his supplies reigned paramount _._ Not near the stream, lest zephyrs snatch a page and send it floating. Not near the camp, lest nature’s same feared forces carry floating ash to singe his precious words, lest prying eyes proclaim him heretic for defiant little snippets he knew better than to write. 

Persnickety as he was, Soferim’s location was predictable to those who cared to know it: Just there, with his back against a certain tree positioned far away from stream and camp alike. Without fail he wrote at day’s conclusion well into the night until exhaustion bade him slumber in a scattered mess of pages. When the dewy wee hours of the morning left their curling mark upon his work, Soferim would wake a’fussing and bebothered to arrange neglected paper in the dappled sun for drying. 

Nearly every morning, Thalis passed this snoring ink-stained fellow in his rounds. When Una sent her pupil hunting Fernin’s scribe, The Grand Keeper’s steps were quick and sure. Though their paths crossed daily, the two had never met aside from Thalis greeting Fernin’s clan when Dorian and Lace conveyed them to _Namadahlan._  

From time to time, the elves of clan Tillahnnen bore blonde elfkits. _Ah,_ how _different_ Una’s life would be had she cast ashore ‘long Keeper Fernin’s stretch of river! Disheveled and straw-headed, here sat the same wide-eyed youth The Dread Wolf freed at Lady Lavellan’s _Arlathvhen_. ( _My,_ but Keeper Fernin had been cross at _that_.) 

Soferim’s Grand Keeper found him writing with his back against that lifeless tree, all-consumed with eyes like periwinkles squinting in the peaceful hours of night. The layelf wore a mage’s robes, and his sloping ears were shot from lobe to tip with gleaming hoops of copper. 

Dalish elves knew not the art of candlemaking. Instead, Soferim penned his hist'ries by the moonlight shining through the crystal canopy above. So focused was the annalist, authority’s approach left him oblivious. Gravel-throated Thalis then addressed him as an elder does, though neither could not be certain who was older. (When speaking with the Keepers’ Keeper, such technicalities were moot.) _  
_

_Ahem. “Da’len.”_

A startled yelp, a seated jump, a flipping page of secrets. A scornful glare which metamorphosed to servility in the aftermath of lagging recognition. Soferim’s edgy voice frogged with the telltale sound of lacking use. 

“Guh-Grand Keeper! _Ir abelas!_ You honor me!” 

Thalis didn’t smile at the apology, nor did he frown. _Oh,_ to lose the placid mantle his subconscious barriers afforded him so long. Though he would thank his tutor later for removing them, in the short run he _did_ suffer. Thalis stood and ran his finger back and forth beneath the leather band upon his wrist, receiving his peer’s deference with discomfort. 

Obviously stiff and still a’tremble with the shock of being snuck upon mid-scribble, the author set his work aside and stood. In his haste to show respect, the soon-to-be Archivist of the Gods upturned his inkwell on a scattered pile of pages. This sent him scrambling and snatching in the grass, whining to himself beneath the pitying gaze of his uneasy Keeper. 

Though Thalis felt for him, they didn’t have the time. 

“Leave it, _lethallin._ The Lady sends for you.” 

Fate. A life-long dream come true. A boy who spent his childhood peeling papery bark from trees and charring sticks to use as sloppy pencils. The elfkit archived every word his Keeper said at dinner, ‘as if it mattered.’ 

To them, it should. To Soferim, it _did._  

Though Thalis made no mention of Soferim’s writing, _oh,_ the way The Lady kissed his face and praised his love of history at the _Arlathvhen!_ And at dinner just the other night, she _remembered_ him! Surely, _surely,_ it could be nothing else! 

Soferim’s upturned face was star-struck, frozen, awed.  “The _Lady…_ sends for _me?”_

Thalis simply nodded, seemingly unfeeling. “Bring nothing. Make haste, _da’len,_ lest we keep her waiting.” 

Thalis aimed to change his ways, but stone-cold tone was programmed second nature. Though The Keepers’ Keeper showed himself as taciturn and wholly uninviting, Soferim's rejoicing was unhampered. The scribe paced before Thalis with frenetic energy, pumping his fists in a universal gesture of triumph. His laugh was _just a little bit_ insane. 

“Ah-haahaha! The Golden Lady sends The Grand Keeper _himself_ to fetch me, and look! Eee, **_look!_** You find me here where even Fernin’s dogs can’t find me! Yes! Ah-hai, _yes!_ I _knew_ this night was blessed! **I _knew_ it!”**  

_Mythal’s **Grace.**_ He’d heard Fernin’s scribe could be _outspoken,_ but… So overwhelmed was Thalis by this unbridled enthusiasm, he took a half-step back and lifted both his eyebrows. His fingers stopped their worrying at the heartbreak-laden leather on his wrist. Soferim ranted on to no one in particular, oblivious to his disconcerting first impression. 

Thalis pinched his nose’s narrow bridgeline as he interjected. “Da'len. _Please.”_

A stumbling halt, a bare-heeled pivot. Soferim offered up his ink-stained hand with an excited smile, violet eyes a’sparkling up at Thalis with unembarrassed joy.  

“Yes, yes! _Ma serannas,_ Grand Keeper! Take me, take me to her!” 


	43. A Heartless Bastard

It was late. They sat cross-legged in Lace’s trusty outpost tent beside the stream, hand-carved pieces softly clinking on the chessboard in between them. Minrathan, made of moonstone. Dorian’s only piece of home, and that was how he liked it.

A ball of wisplight lit the tent. Their talk was soft, their eyes too pained to leave the game. Typically, Dorian would play her blindfolded and Lace would state her moves. Tonight, he did not feel so boastful. He clapped his pawn down as he spoke.

“I used him. Say it. I’m a heartless bastard.”

Lace’s silence could mean anything. Hand floating, hesitating, rearranging pieces to the tune of algebraic sense. _Clink. Hmm…chink._

She _finally_ answered, kind and quiet. “I don’t think you were. That’s not what using looks like, Dor.”

Dorian’s turn took a fraction of the time. When he responded, Lace was _hmm_ ing at the board again.

“… _Ugh._ I _hate_ you when you’re nice. Maker’s _sake,_ Lace. He’s half my age and scared of his own shadow, and I just – ”

Lace smirked through their sadness as she cut him off. “You’re a heartless bastard. Better?”

Glumly, Dorian replied. “No. Will you **_go already,_** rocks-for-brains?”

“Anyone ever tell you, you’ve got an awfully _ugly_ mouth for such a pretty face?”

“Titless, nug-munching half-pint.”

“Hey now. My tits are great.”

Dorian blew air between his lips, a half-stifled walrusy sort of laugh. Lace laughed too, but not so strangely. Mirth gave Dorian an excuse to wipe his eyes, further smearing his already blurry kohl in all directions. His flawless hair was a disheveled mess, the stubble on his jaw was well past 5 o’clock. As laughter died he gave his oily face a rub, unhappy and exhausted.

Lace finally took her turn, pretending not to watch him. “Men who use people don’t cry about it, Dor.”

Sarcastically, the loving smile beneath his hands a rueful one. “As if _you_ knew, my dear.”

Lace smiled back into the ensuing silence.

A third voice then, outside the tent and seeming out of nowhere.“Whaa-atcha taaalkin’ abo-oout?”

Lace winced, covering her mouth. Dorian rolled his eyes, sighing like a man who longed to die.

Dorian lacked many things that night, and one of them was patience. Lace turned where she sat, gladly holding a tent flap aside for Veyla’s entry. The tent was small, but the young elf was content to squirm in next to Lace. The girl was nearly in the woman’s lap. Across from both of them, Dorian glared flat-eyed into Veyla’s grinning face.

 _“Kaffas._ You’re still out skulking? Don’t Dalish children have a bedtime? Go **_away.”_**

Veyla, unperturbed, hissed laughter twixt her teeth and showed Dorian her pink and pointy tongue. At that, Dorian’s flat eyes went flatter. Their game of chess was ruined. (Just as well – Lace was _creaming_ him tonight.) Dorian plucked a smooth white pebble from the board, clearing his throat as he shoved the evidence in Veyla’s face.

“You see, thieving kit? You’ve reduced my knights to rocks. I suppose you’ve come to turn my bishops into acorns?”

Veyla’s eyes flitted past the rock to Dorian’s bedraggled face. “Uh-huh... Are you crying because you’re losing?”

Lace gave the nosy elf a squeeze. Though she no longer stalked the dwarf and peppered her with questions, the Grand Keeper’s little sister _was_ quite fond of Lace. Veyla hugged back, her attentions seamlessly diverted from the mage’s wretched state.

Lace volunteered, “Dorian _always_ cries when I beat him.”

“ _Seriously?”_ Veyla eyed him ‘cross the tent, half judgement and half pity. “Geez…”

Dorian allowed himself to spill backwards into Lace’s bedroll, grateful for his friend's slanderous save. He rubbed his greasy face again, speaking through his hands. **_“Elves._** I don’t know how you stand it, Lace. Living in this sack surrounded by these filthy savages, eating well-done bushmeat every night. Can’t even play a bloody game of chess in peace. You must get _out_ more, my dear. You're fast becoming an old maid in this pestilent place.”

They both ignored him. At once, they began whispering together the way girlfriends will. Dorian could hear, of course, but he was hardly interested.

As they spoke, he fantasized about returning home for peace and quiet. Home, to his empty apartment, to sleep alone in his cold bed… _Ah._ In his mind, Fantasia curdled sour. When he thought of calling on The Bull, his heartsick stomach tied itself in shameful knots.

Well, if not **_him,_** then _what?_ What **_now?_** Maker, Dorian couldn’t _stand_ how **_lonely_** life could be. He rolled his shoulders ‘gainst the ground and crossed his wrists upon his forehead, wishing he could turn his mind to blinding snow like Thalis used to do. Still did. Would _always_ do, most likely.

Well, hats off to _him._ That soulless, gloomy, stubborn...gorgeous, frightened,  _helpless_ little whelp.

**Kaffas.**

When Dorian closed his burning eyes, he nearly fell asleep in Lace’s bed. His mated bracelet set to business leaving patterned indentations in his forehead.

Meanwhile Lace murmured to Veyla, “A boy from across the river was looking _everywhere_ for you today. Said you missed some game?”

Veyla’s eyes went wide with sudden comprehension, and she pouted an apology to no one. “Aw, no! They can’t play without me!” Then, curiously, “What was his name?”

“Danny, I think? Elgar chased him home, poor sod. … _Cute,_ though.”

The tips of Veyla’s ears went pink, and she did her best to look aloof. Her narrow shoulders shrugged dismissal. “Oh, that’s just Darby. He’s...nice. Elgar didn’t bite him, did he?”

“Nooo. I don’t think Elgar has it in him.”

Veyla looked at Lace like she was silly. “Elgar’s _mamae_ was Deshanna’s Keeping hound. He would've ripped poor Darby’s face off!”

“…? Elgar’s always nice to me.”

Veyla sighed like a know-it-all, pulling Lace into a more enthusiastic hug. “That’s because you’re _family!”_

Across the tent, Dorian gagged theatrically. _Still,_ they ignored him. As the women hugged, Lace spied a bulging stash of _something_ hanging out of Veyla’s pocket. She gave the wad a poke and asked, “Whatcha got? Something good?”

Veyla nodded, suddenly quite serious and proud. Secretive as she was of late, The Dread Wolf’s cub was well adept at whispering. “Yeah. It’s Miss Una’s.”

Lace’s eyebrows rose. “You stole from _Una?_ Damn, you’re _good._ What _is_ it?”

It was Veyla’s turn to change the subject. Whether or not this was on _purpose,_ Lace may never know. Regardless, this topic in particular diverted Lace's thoughts. Veyla grabbed Lace by her muscled upper arms and shook her as she spoke, her voice half-squealing with excitement. (Veyla’s racket grated Dorian’s exhausted nerves, of course and as always.)

“Oh, oh,  _oh!_ Varric’s name-day is tomorrow!” Veyla tossed a chess piece at Dorian’s chest to summon his reluctant presence in the conversation. “Dorian! You have to take us!”

 _Varric..._ To Lace, the world took on the sound of being underwater. She checked out before the duo started arguing.

Dorian drawled from Lace’s bedroll, half-asleep and cynical. “ _Have_ to, do I? Doesn’t our dear Varric live in _Kirkwall?”_

Veyla chimed, enthusiasm incarnate. “Yeah!”

Mildly, “Then I shan’t be going, thank you _very_ much.”

Veyla’s unexpected pounce tore Dorian’s eyes open with a startled grunt. Though they _looked_ alike, her brother she was _not._ Veyla straddled Dorian, fisting his robes and making quite a stinky face.

“Wha - _Unhand_ me, you little reprobate! Augh, you smell like my old coinpurse, what have you been _doing?_ Praise be to the Black Divine, your makeup is _atrocious.”_ He made to throw her off. Veyla would not be unsaddled, much to Dorian’s surprise.

_This girl is really **nothing** like her brother. …Well. Don’t I just feel seven kinds of filthy. _

Veyla’s bony knees assailed him without mercy. “You _owe_ me! You’re _taking_ me to Kirkwall tomorrow!”

“Absolutely not. I _hardly_ think your brother – ”

Dorian had no idea how _wrong_ a thing that was to say. If _Thalis_ had his way, she’d be in swaddling for life. Her overwrought rebuttal lacked its spaces.

“ _Thalis_ cangolickatoadforallIcare! You’re **_taking_** me!” For emphasis, she gave his robes a jerk.

Dorian got louder, higher-pitched...

“If you _think,_ for one _second,_ that _I_ intend to spend _my_ afternoon escorting _you_ around that _cesspool_ of a _city_ – ”

...But only Cole could conquer Veyla in a shouting match, and he had only managed once. She was flat-out shaking Dorian.

 _ **“Jerk!** _ You don’t have to _**stay!** _**Just** **get me there!”**

Unperturbed, and _painfully_ sarcastic. “Oh? And _how,_ exactly, do you intend to make it home? Shall Daddy-waddy pick you up at eight p.m., my punkin? Ooh, or have you graduated from your bedwetting at last? Is our baby ready for a slumber party?”

_How does he **know** that?!_

Veyla turned beet red as Dorian took on a wicked grin. She howled at the offense. Her swift kick sent his chess set scattering around the tent.  ** _"I'll kill you! You'll be DEAD!"_**

Lace, forgotten by the both of them, resurfaced from the mire of her own thoughts to intervene. She spoke beside the warring dragons, placid as a pond.

“Don’t listen to him, Veyla. It’s no Redcliffe, but Kirkwall’s not that bad. Cole’s working in Kirkwall, Dor. He’ll bring us home.”

Veyla’s heart leapt up so high with hope that Dorian could _feel_ it from below. In an instant her expression’s flavor changed to one of longing, _begging._ Dorian craned his neck to look at Lace, responding to her statement with unfiltered surprise. _“Us?”_

Lace shrugged and smiled at Dorian. “Sure, why not? I miss the hairy sod. Besides, weren’t you just telling me I need a change of scenery?” Then, with gravity, “A party wouldn’t hurt _you,_ either.”

 _“Eugh._ Squeezed on a barstool in a mass of _Varric’s_ drunken friends? Fights, moldy peanuts, rusty forks, the _body odor_ …I’d rather wax my bollocks, I’m afraid.”

Dorian uttered his addendum 'gainst the chorus of his own reluctant sigh, “But if you _insist,_ I suppose I’ll take you.”

As though he were her dear beloved lambkin, Veyla gave up menacing Dorian to squeeze him tight and plant a noisy kiss upon his golden cheek. After that, her demeanor changed _again._ As she slid from him and left the tent with muttered goodbyes bordering on morose, Dorian wondered just how _anyone_  could tolerate the fickle little beast without a sedative.

Before his thought was finished she returned to prove his point, sticking her head through the tent flap with a mumble. “Almost f’got. Dorian, Miss Una wants you.”

Dorian sat up a glowering member of the Inquisition, albeit no less snide or tired.  “How _thoughtful_ of you to remember. I don’t suppose it’s _urgent?_ What with her sending you to find me in the middle of the night?”

“I dunno. She sounded mad…”

 _“Fasta **vass,**_ you  _useless_ little monster."

Lace furrowed with worry as she watched Dorian extract himself from her abode one shamble at a time. Though a quick visit to his chambers in Antiva won Dorian his staff, he felt he had no time to shave or freshen up. As Dorian rushed on towards Una’s chambers in the dead of night, he cursed Veyla’s flighty hide with every heavy step.

* * *

 

Though he’d been dazed when Veyla brought him here, Thalis _did_ recall the stone. It was wide and flat, and white of course, set flush within the ground. Veyla stood beside it, thusly. Earlier that night, when Veyla called out Una’s name, an arched doorway appeared. Then Una’s lap, and then the talk, and now –

Well, here Thalis stood with wispglow floating overhead. He’d called her, twice, and now he waited for his teacher to respond.

The elf beside him was electric. Thalis was exhausted beyond interest in small talk, as if idle conversation  _ever_ suited him. Yet, to have this overly excited fellow quivering at his side in anxious silence made Thalis even more uncomfortable than talking small.

_So be it. Perhaps making talk will teach me to be likable._

Typically, one begins by asking for a name. Newcomer that he was to socializing, timid Thalis didn’t think of that. His voice was deeper than the sea he’d never seen. “You are not a mage, _da’len,_ and yet you dress like one.”

The adrenaline-addled annalist was nervous. Where Thalis stuttered on a syllable, Soferim would drop entire sentences and pick them up again. His every sentence upswung like a question. “Oh! Ah-haha, yes? Is it – I’m sorry, is it alright?”

Dalish Elves asked Thalis’ permission for the _strangest_ things. “It is not for me to choose your clothes.”

“Oh. Well, it-… It seemed like something a historian might wear? And, it-… Well, you see, they were mamae’s? She’s uh, she’s dead?”

Though it _was_ strange for a young male elf to wear his deceased mother’s clothes and stranger still for him to freely say so, Thalis found he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. _“Ir abelas._ I am pleased your mother leaves you with remembrances.”

“I-…yes. _Ma serannas._ …And yours, Grand Keeper? They say your mother died when you were young? A dragon, is that right?”

Though Thal could not recall the fellow’s name, his tactless reputation _did_ precede him. With that question, pinching at the crest between his eyes became The Grand Keeper’s new official habit.

He’d never spoken of his mother, not once in all his life. It was not _done,_ a Keeper sharing private matters with his flock. It was not like a Keeper, nor was it like _him._ That is to say, it _hadn't_ been.

_Never let tradition come between your heart and love. Love, above all things, is sacred._

He made his mind without another thought. Quietly, bluntly, Thalis responded. “We slept beneath her bedhide ‘til it rotted. _Da’lenlin_ screamed and bit me when I burned it.” Thalis pulled his sleeve aside to tap his index finger on a faded crescent scar.

The writer at his side was stilled and awed. “Keeper. It’s-…That’s wonderful.”

Thalis felt discomfort, yes, but something else as well. Too tired to face the strain of new emotions, he dropped his sleeve and changed the subject. “You write.”

Proudly, seriously, all hiccups in his syntax wholly gone. “I do.”

“What sort of stories?”

“Not stories, Grand Keeper. I write history. The truth.”

 _That_ tore Thal’s gaze away from staring far afield and waiting for his tutor’s magic door to come. He eyed the fellow with a quiet _huh_ and a fresh pair of eyes. “History? The Fall?”

Soferim’s correction was not shy. His words were fast, exacting, and he left no room for interjection.

“The _Dalish_ Fall. We weren’t the first or saddest. Yes, the Dalish Fall. The way our lives are now, the way they were, the way they will be. You, Grand Keeper. The gods who walk among us.”

“Huh.”

Soferim suddenly became quite thoughtful, and he continued: “Have you met him? The Dread Wolf?”

“Once.”

“You have! Did he speak to you?”

“Yes.”

“!! What did he say!”

“He…called me young. I don’t recall.”

Clearly starved for information, the scribe’s waving arms implored. Moonlight glinted on his jewelry as he jigged with consternation. “Wha - ?! Fen’Harel _spoke_ to you, and you can’t **_remember_** what he **_said?!”_**

Thalis _should_ have punished his excitable kinsman for the backtalk. ‘Til now no elf dared cross words with him, save his contemptuous First.

Then again, ‘til now most Dalish elves had hardly talked to Thal at all. “… _Ir abelas, lethallin._ I was more concerned with his intentions than his words.”

Though he guarded his unpopular opinion with his life, tonight Soferim was high on pride and too impassioned to be sensible. He blurted, “Fen’Harel is kind. I’m _certain_ of it!”

Thalis eyed the scribe with the same curiosity he’d used to eye the cage of squawking chickens. He thought about his gentle sister walking hand-in-hand with this mysterious maybe-devil in the mist. As Thal looked back ahead to seek the door that wouldn’t come, he answered simply, “And your Keeper is not.”

Sense caught up with Soferim a hundred beats too late. He was shrinking, sheepish, mortified. “…Ah. Well, it’s… That’s what makes you great? You think for us? _Ir abelas,_ Grand Keeper. I, ah…It’s just, it’s so _exciting,_ knowing that he’s here somewhere? Eight _thousand_ years, at _least,_ it’s - Don’t you think? It’s… _fantastic.”_

“Mm. Eight thousand years, _da’len,_ and many stories of betrayal. Your Keeper marks The Dread Wolf’s reappearance and The Dalish Fall as non-coincidental, the White Wood less than kind.”

Silence. For quite possibly the first time in his life, Soferim paid an appropriate response.

One does not sneak easy on a Dalish elf, and Dorian was far too _tired_ to sneak. As a result, Soferim and Thalis heard him coming from quite far away. Two sets of pointed ears went prickly. They turned their heads like startled deer to see the _shemlen_ mage approaching in the night, Veil-lit staff illuminating the right side of his face.

Thalis thought he looked, as Dorian would say, _horrendous._

_Hahren. **Hahren.** Mercy, **please** come out. I can’t. Not now. Not yet._

Thal’s face returned to staring out at nothing, _begging_ for his teacher’s door to come. His thumb, already raw, rubbed out his anxieties on that poor bracelet all anew. He had it loose around his knuckles now, worrying silverite and leather in an endless circle ‘round his fingers like a praying Chantry boy a’struggle with his faith. Mere _hours_ ago, this man had been his love. Though Una’s words assured the ear, t’was all Keeper Lavellan could do to stop himself from wretching with despair and bursting into tears before this ambitious elf who noted _everything_ he saw. 

Though Dorian appeared as one too tired for sarcasm, never in his life had that been true. He muttered as though to himself as he drew near the pair.

“Well, _that_ was fast. And here I was worried. This whole time, it’s blondes?”

Soferim, still cowed to silence from his blunders, backed out of what _appeared_ to be a lover's spat with a nervous little _hem_ - _hem_ in his throat.

Thalis closed his eyes and whispered. _“Dorian…_ This isn’t – “

Dorian gave Thal a shattered smirk. He eyed the backsliding blonde longways as he took his place at the Grand Keeper’s side. Dorian said quietly, “I know, poppet. …You alright? You look like something I scraped off my boot last week.”

_Creators. **Me?** You look terrible, vhenan…_

Thal couldn’t look at Dorian beyond a mournful glance, nor could he answer him. To be called _poppet_ in  _Namadahlan_ gave Thal's brain a nervous fit. 

Obviously uneasy with the silence, Dorian crossed his arms and jerked his chin at Soferim, content to use him as a scratching post. “Aren’t you the nutter who takes head counts every morning?”

Soferim started,   “I – “

Thalis, more familiar with his beau's shortcomings than either would admit, cut Soferim's answer short through clenching teeth. “Please, Dorian _._ Do not mock my kin.”

 _“Mock_ him? Why, I never – “

 Finally, _finally,_ Una spared them all the burden of each other’s painful company. At her sudden arrival, their three spines went varying degrees of rigid.

If there was a “ _you look fucking **terrible”**_ award to win tonight, the world’s newest god was a contender. Thalis spied the silver vial in her hand and wondered after it. Her angry eyes danced over Dorian, assessing his exhaustion with a scowl. She was all business, short and curt. Her tone invited no questions, no sympathy, _nothing_ but compliance.

“Dorian. Are you fit to travel?”

Thalis stepped aside, observing Dorian in secret – he was sizing _her_ up, his face a half-masked picture of foreboding and concern. His eyes came to rest upon the bottle. Whatever it was for, _he_ knew.

As she and he were bosom friends, Dorian _did_ try. His voice was soft. “Maker, Una, _look_ at you. You can’t be – “

Her hiss decapitated his well-meaning sentiment. “ _Are you fit?”_

“I…I am, Inquisitor. Anything you need.”

Only one man _dared_ to cross with Una when her verdant eyes were red with fire, and even he would much prefer to spread his hands and let The Lady have her way. Though Dorian punched Solas in the past for standing idly by and letting Una drink her poison, in this moment he knew better than to press her.

With Dorian’s satisfactory response, Una took Soferim by the shoulder and started issuing orders. At Una’s touch, Thalis watched the elf whose name he  _still_ could not recall light up with pride.

“Deliver us to Skyhold at once. Thalis, sleep and Keep your kin. There will be no breakfast on the morrow.”

Thalis watched his one-time lover’s hand reach out to do his teacher’s bidding. The trio disappeared more quickly than an anxious elf could mutter, “As you wish.”

* * *

 

Theirs would be the most exquisite aravels to ever navigate the land, white as bone and carved from bow to stern with Ghilan'nain’s motifs. Aaran chiseled hard-won blessings into unyielding timber, desperate to help his wayward people find their way. Though his blisters broke and bled, though his knuckles locked and ached, he forwent sleep and toiled unceasing in the secret hell of his creation. While his labors served to bolster Dalish spirits, the atonement Aaran longed for never came.

Still, it was a lovely aravel indeed.

* * *

A tent for one, a bulky pile of blankets bordering on bone-crushing. Tonight, even these familiar comforts weren’t enough to help poor Thalis sleep. Finally alone, he lay awake and watched his mind go racing with a new kind of doubt, his stomach knotted in a new kind of knot. Anxious, _always_ anxious, but now…hopeful. Determined. A vehicle of change fueled by desire to be Dorian’s again. To be _better._ To be…free. And _happy._

 _Hahren_ showed him how it looked and how to get there. Still, the task was daunting.

Though Lace made no efforts to sneak, Thalis was too lost in thought to notice her approach. She spoke softly, just above his head. “Thal.”

Thalis gasped out loud and jerked beneath his mountain of covers. It was not like him, being visibly startled. It was not like him being visibly _anything._ That is to say, it _hadn’t_ been.

Perhaps it was, now. Like him.

Thal was not the touching type. That is to say, he _hadn’t_ been. He hadn’t cuddled like a lustless elfkit since the days when little sister used to wet his bed. When the caring friend he’d feared the loss of found his side, he hugged her like a child with no consideration of his scowling kin’s opinion. His words of muttered thanks were hoarse. Aside from her sarcastic jibe about his hulking furs, the two of them spoke not a word ‘til morning. As Thalis slept more soundly than he had in weeks, he held Lace tight and didn’t let her go.


	44. Bucksblood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.youtube.com/embed/0mk9_Ndly2I?rel=0)   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> I read the signs, I got all my stars aligned  
> My amulets, my charms  
> I set all my false alarms  
> So I'll be someone who won't be forgotten  
> I've got a question, and you've got the answer
> 
> I check my palms, the cracks in the sidewalk  
> My visions and my dreams  
> I cross all my fingers  
> That you'll be someone who won't be forgotten  
> What was your question? I've got the answer!
> 
> I do a dance to make the rain come  
> Smile to keep the sky from falling down  
> Collect the love that I've been given  
> Build a nest for us to sleep in here  
> You know it's real
> 
> There are no signs  
> There are no stars aligned  
> No amulets, not a charm  
> To bring you back to my arms  
> There's just this human heart  
> That's built with this human flaw  
> What was your question?  
> Love is the answer.

The sun was down when Cole came back, but only just. Though near-dead on his feet he was still anxious to find Veyla, as per always. Grubby as he was, however, Cole forced himself to apparate at home and freshen up – it would not do to come home stinking two times in a row. Whilst standing in the grass beside his doorstep, Cole bent to loose the buckles on his muddy boots. Meanwhile, his heart’s desire was binding broken hearts with leather trinkets in Antiva City’s Rustic Quarter.

He’d spent that jittery post-dive afternoon in Kirkwall’s Alienage, hence the footed filth. High-octane and with slightly bulging eyes, the fast-talking Emissary somehow won a compromise with Edlewyn, Kirkwall’s ever-smilling Hahren. She had dimples and wore dreadlocks like Cole’s Chasind mother. She granted Cole express permission to refer to her as _Ed._

He promised Ed he’d move their cherished _vhenadahl_ and keep the thing intact _._ How he intended to accomplish _that,_ Cole did not begin to know. If Cole could convey things like _trees,_ his teleporting boots would steal the grass and floor planks every time he left a place.

Furthermore, if her people voted in a month to go back home Cole swore to take them, tree and all. Anything was worth a yes from Ed. _Anything_ to make so many people happy. (He was _certain_ they’d be happier – how could they not?)

Whatever Solas said to Merrill was effective. Cole didn’t catch one glimpse of her, though he and Edlewyn walked through the Alienage all afternoon. While relieved to bargain unimpeded, Cole _had_ hoped to say hello.

All in all, it had been quite a day. Adrenaline now plummeting from aerial to far below the level of the sea, the poor young man was moving in a daze. As such, unshoeing took _forever._ Crystal-filtered moonlight lit his stooping back and cast his lumbering shadow on the ground as Cole labored haltingly through second-nature motions.

At last, in tidy socks that spared his floor a mess, he entered. He was far too spaced to note the bucksblood X that marked his door from sill to lintel.

The stink of arson stung Cole’s eyes and nostrils. All day long, he’d _longed_ to have it gone. Cole doffed his smoke-choked journeywear and underclothes, too numb of mind to entertain the notion of a bath. He emptied out his pockets, draping the offending outfit o’er his only stool. Wrinkling his nose, he shoved the lot into the furthest corner of his tiny home. It would not do to smell it from his bed.

It _sang_ to him, his bed. Its comforts tempted neck-and-neck with Veyla’s quirky smile. If Cole’s somnolent triune brain could have its way, true love would stand no chance.

Cole listened to the ringing in his ears as he fumbled into clean pajamas. That _smell,_ it wouldn’t _leave._ When he pulled the cord of leather from his tangled hair, several see-through strands came with it. Callous, as a tired man will be with things like his own hair, Cole snatched a tuft and pulled it near his face to take a whiff. When he realized the burning stench befouled his hair and skin, the noise he made was somewhere in between a grumble and a whine. (If he’d been a human man and _cared_ during the war, he’d know this lesson well enough by now.)

Unhappily resigned to stink, Cole pressed his clammy fingertips against his lids and had a hazy think. In the twilit hour of early night, his sweetheart could be anywhere – Telling stories much too loudly o’er the din of Mercy’s Table, practicing her blades, playing ball games with her friends across the stream, lounging wide awake in bed and doing heaps of nothing. She could be fast asleep, or bathing.

(A pity Pretty girl went straight from Dorian’s posh residence to plotting theft in Mercy’s den; she would not emerge ‘til very late that night. If Cole had known, he could’ve had a pout and gone to bed. Things as they were, he walked outside instead.)

Cole shut the door without a backward glance, but then – her gift. The leathers, did he bring them? He turned to walk back in before his murky mind remembered, _no._ With turning ‘round, pale eyes espied graffiti’s gore. When lagging recognition dawned, Cole’s double-take was violent enough to strain a cord of sinew in his neck.

He hadn’t been a person long, but he understood _exactly_ what this meant.

Cole twisted on his heels to face the doorway, and he _stared._ He backed slowly down the steps, heedless of the likely grass stains on his socks. His lips parted as he lingered there, mouth-breathing in disbelief. The blood, now dry, had been applied by hand. The vandal’s fingers left their mark in streaks. 

He rubbed his eyes, he looked again. This was no second-dive. The blood was real, and likewise on his window. An unpermitted noise cracked in his throat. If Cole weren’t so blind-sided, he’d whisper “ _what the **fuck…?”**_ as dumbstruck humans are supposed to do.

Being caught red-handed purring budding passions in his girl’s forbidden ear. Facing demons in a brothel where his dwarven hero fell from grace and left Cole disappointed. Sharing captive conversation with a whore he couldn’t _help_ but picture naked. Tripping balls _all_ day. Facing former hells and turning them to kindling. The offer and the key a’clinking in his near-too-small pajama pocket. On top of _all_ of it, an anxious afternoon spent making maybe-empty promises to Kirkwall’s friendly Hahren.

Now _this?_ And just days ago – Marli, Merrill, Pola’s nasty _hahren._ Cole’s flu, the halla-doo. As his gentle heart began to swell with hurt, Cole came to a conclusion he would evermore believe.

_I’m cursed._

Compassion braced his hands upon his narrow waist, he bowed his head. If life had taught him _anything,_ t’was this: No man can stop emotions when they’re of a mind to come. To feel unwanted was a special nerve, and _yes,_ the hateful message more-than pricked. As pain washed over him, all Cole could do was shut his eyes too tight and snatch at wavering breath with clenching lungs.

Though the latchkey in his pocket whispered promises of kinder neighbors ‘mongst the fair-haired humans of Orlais, Cole could _not_ abide the thought of leaving everything and everyone he loved behind to start another life, yet he _refused_ to linger where he wasn’t wanted.

Too tired to find a silver lining or to care about possessions, Cole at once surrendered to familiar homelessness. As he walked away to search for Veyla, relentless heartache kept his pace.

* * *

 

_I should just live here, under this tree. Lace lives in a tent. She likes it. I could like it. It would feel like the Inquisition every day. The stream sounds nice, and I can watch for Veyla._

When Cole plied his tired tries at finding Veyla, he learned _exactly_ how she felt that night he promised he’d come home and never made it. He felt lonely, he felt worried, and he _sorely_ needed hugs to soothe the lump of hurt that lingered in his throat. He’d checked both neighborhoods, west and east. He’d found a lovely clear spot for Ed’s _vhenadahl,_ at least.

Nighttime was in full swing by the time Cole gave it up and sat – collapsed, really – upon the City riverbank. From here, he could see Veyla’s treehouse glowing moonlit in the distance.

He’d doze beneath _her_ tree, but suddenly hers felt to be the wrong side of the river. Besides. _This_ tree was plenty comfortable for leaning, quite possibly the best he’d ever sat against. Her pretty eyes were sharp as razorblades – if he slept here and she came home, _surely_ she would see him.

Satisfied as he _could_ be with circumstances as they were, Cole and his stabby throat-lump conked right out.

The voice that stopped his sleep was young and male.

“Who’s there?”

Cole hardly woke. He slurred his words with snoozing. “Hnh? …Jus’ me. S’Cole.”

The speaker did not leave. He was standing at Cole’s splayed feet, and there was a rhythmic swishing sound.

“Oh…You brought us here. I remember your hair.”

At that, Cole opened his tired eyes and smiled. Though the elf before him was roughly Veyla’s age, Cole looked at _him_ and saw a child. His hair and eyes were brown, and he was neither short nor tall. He was, in every way, a normal boy. He tossed a metal ball just bigger than an apple back and forth between his hands. He looked uneasy, and his eyes kept flitting west.

Though Compassion was a man with wants – primarily, to _sleep_ – he could not sit idly by when someone was unhappy. (If he were awake enough to mark their view of Veyla’s treehouse and recall his sweetheart’s late night stories about playing tomma ball with boys across the stream, the conversation would have happened _**very  **_differently.)

Cole rubbed his eyes and groggily replied. “Thank you. It’s nice to be remembered. Um…What are you thinking?”

When the lad looked weirded out, Cole added, “You look unhappy.”

He responded with averted eyes and a theatric scowl, as young men will when asked about their feelings. The ball never stopped moving. It was filled with sand that whispered as it moved. 

The boy mumbled as he nodded towards the tree behind Cole’s back. “Well, you’re _kind of_  in my spot.”

It was Cole’s turn to make a puzzled face. He did so, leaning forward and craning his long neck to look over his shoulder at the tree. Five faint letters bore the tomma captain’s name in white wood hard as stone.

_DARBY_

Of this comfy haven’s ownership, then, there could be no question. The smoke-haired vagabond was homeless once again.

“…Oh. Sorry.”

Cole numbly found his feet and stepped aside as he apologized, envious of Darby’s good idea. Cole wished _he’d_ been bright enough to carve his name into the woodflesh of the rafter just above his bedroll back in Skyhold, to claim the place as his. He found himself imagining exactly _what_ he’d etch his name in now, for by the Maker or whoever else, he meant to.

It made him think about the blood, the key, the shack he left a’cinder. It left what waking mind he wielded wondering what was truly _his._

Darby’s sour expression as he settled in his spot gave Compassion something more outside himself to wonder at, and _that_ was good. The old habit of comforting brought Cole’s tormented heart immense relief. He sat cross-legged just beside the boy, for rarely will a seated person share their troubles with a standing one. _Still,_ the ball swish-swished.

After listening to the swishing for a while, Cole cleared his throat and spoke. He sounded tired, but awake.

“I don’t think the sitting made you happy.”

Darby snapped back, “I got stood up, alright? What do _you_ care? Sheesh…”

Cole winced and scratched behind his ear, furrowing his eyebrows at the boy. He fumbled through their conversation, lacking all the grace he’d gained in recent months. He was too tired to ply his trade without the safety net of eavesdropping on thoughts.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. But-…You’re not standing now. Why does standing bother you so much? Did you hurt your foot?”

Darby’s expression made it clear that Cole was sounding daft. Cole rubbed his forehead in the boy’s responding silence, beside himself with wishing he could help. As he sat there feeling vulnerable and useless and _so_ sleepy and _so_ miserable, his soul-deafness crushed him as it hadn’t done in weeks. He glanced across the stream at Veyla’s distant ladder, grasping for the only thing in human life that he felt sure of.

_Pretty girl, come home. My heart works better when you’re with me._

Sensing Cole’s discomfort, Darby shrugged and licked the lip he busted hurdling ‘cross the stream to run from Pola’s hound. Though he _was_ in a horrid mood, Veyla hadn’t called him nice for nothing.

“…Girls are dumb, is all.”

Though Cole disagreed, he was too excited at the tenuous confession to argue. He looked alive, nodding eagerly and simply stating, “Oh.”

Darby took the breath one takes before a rant – a sharp breath, short and loud.

“They mess with you. I mean, they say they’re gonna do something and then they don’t, you know? Or they say they _like_ something, but they don’t. Or they _don’t_ say it, but they do. They can’t just – _Ugh,_ and then they just _laugh_ at you, or go do something else, and you feel like an idiot.”

In that moment, the heavens above _Namadahlan_ parted especially for Cole. His life’s careening crash-course in emotional maturity had given him the answer to this _very_ riddle, and he was thrilled to help. Compassion smiled beneath his baggy eyes that danced with memories of twilit mud fights and pebbles ringing noisy ‘gainst his helmet from the rafters – peanuts, sometimes, when the bar dish wasn’t empty.

(The sad truth was, Cole had never felt the pangs of unrequited love. From his well-meaning vantage on the riverbank beside the hurting boy, Cole could not tell the difference.)

Suddenly confident, Cole set his hand on Darby’s slender shoulder. He then proceeded to unwittingly instruct the City elf in stealing his most closely guarded treasure, parroting dear Varric’s sage advice regarding flirting.

“Don’t be angry, Darby. Girls do that when they want boys to chase them. Does she take your things?”

The older male had Darby’s full attention – the ball stopped swishing in his hands. The boy shook his head no.

Cole looked thoughtful for a moment. A little _hu-hu_ chuckle to himself, and he continued. His words began to slur. Come Templar or blight dragon, the halestone _would_ have its due and see Cole fast asleep within five minutes time.

 _“Hu-hu,_ well…I guess girls don’t _always_ steal. Have you-… _yawwrnnnh!_ M’sorrynh, have you tried a present?”

Darby muttered glumly, “Like what? I don’t have money…Even if I did, there’s no stores in this stupid place.”

Cole’s kind expression melted with concerns beyond the two of them. “Oh no…Y’think this place’s’stupid?”

Darby winced. “Oh, sorry…I mean, I like it okay. It’s nice.”

Cole roughly rubbed his face. Desperate to stay awake, he shook his head so hard hair whipped his pallid cheeks.

_Hnff. Didn’t useta **hafta** sleep. _

“Dun’need to buy a present. Jus’ give her something’s yours.”

“…Seriously? What, like my _shoes_ or something?”

“Nuh, shoes stink. Gotta smell good.”

“O…kay. I’ll uh, I’ll think about it.”

If Cole _could_ read minds, he’d hear Darby thinking something like – **_That’s_** _rich, coming from a shem who stinks like sour bonfire._

Cole’s head was _pounding_ with exhaustion. He gave Darby’s shoulder a weak pat and went fishing in his pocket for his Emissary stone, a ticket to the one place he was _always_ welcome. He wasn’t thinking about Veyla anymore, just _sleep._

Seconds after shared goodnights, Cole sprawled out on his belly next to Varric’s foreroom hearth. No blankets, no pillows, just a warm stiff floor that didn’t spurn his needy cheek. Ser Pounce-a-Lot sauntered ‘cross the room at once to claim his spot between Cole’s scar-raked shoulders. Though the bar below him roared with racket, Cole was fast asleep and drooling before kitty finished kneading.

Back in _Namadahlan,_ Cole’s unwitting rival settled back to gaze at Veyla’s empty house and sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to schizohybrid for the art, St. Vincent for the love song!


	45. A Bald and Cocky Chode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mala fenedhis lasa = Allow your (own) wolf privates; Addressed to Solas in particular, "Go fuck yourself."  
> \---------

She was half-way up her ladder when she saw it. Darby’s lucky tomma ball, patina dully glinting ‘neath the moon, was tucked among the roots of Veyla’s tree. Darby’s orb of hollow metal filled with sand was not _quite_ full – grains snuck between the heat-tacked seams with time, as sand was wont to do. Resultantly, the treasured thing had telltale little dents that marked it his.

She dropped, she stooped, she plucked the tomma ball up from the ground and stuffed it in her satchel. Any larger, and the thing would be too wide for her to grasp one-handed. By no means predisposed to guilt - she had lost them the game - Veyla read the message as a token of missed contact with a friend. Or, perhaps he’d simply dropped the thing when Elgar caught his city-dwelling scent.

Regardless, the voice that purred inside her head when her soles touched familiar ground was _not_ that of her tomma captain sleeping just across the stream.

_Silly. I want to kiss you anyway. I told you that before. It’s like borrowing for free._

_Today is different. I don’t know when I’ll finish._

_Veyla. My mouth misses you. It… it **aches…**_

She indulged in make-believe and swooning then, giggling and whispering coy nothings up at no one real. Her lashes batted bashful as she curled her fingers ‘round the rope rail of her ladder, swinging to and fro with one foot on the ground.

When Sylaise sent her womb’s reminder prickling, sullen Veyla stopped her play and hauled her throbbing carcass up the tree.

Veyla comforted herself with fancying that her day’s adventures _hadn’t_ robbed her of the promised kiss – _surely,_ he’d been far too busy to come home tonight. _Surely_ she hadn’t missed him. The sun had not yet risen, though it threatened to – perhaps, _perhaps,_ he’d be there any minute.

On the off chance her suitor _would_ come calling, Veyla donned his gift to keep it handy. So petite was she, the band of intricately plaited leather wrapped her ankle twice. The day’s remaining treasures – the brand new kohl she couldn’t bother fixing on her face in spite of Dorian’s rebuke, a crumpled bag a’bursting with Antivan penny candy, the purloined tea and Darby’s tomma ball – she stashed beneath her pillow.

The hour was too-late bordering on early. The prior day’s events were tiresome. These things considered, Veyla’s fluffy bed could summon up no siren song that moved her. Baubles now secure, Veyla rooted at the foot-end of her messy nest to find her hidden case of throwing knives a’tangled in the sheets.

Though her motivations never waned, seeing the Antivan marketplace for the first time left her soaring heart _electrified_ with wants. Sylaise and sleep be damned. If naught but _practice_ stood between her hungry feet and all of Thedas, then practice she would stubbornly pursue.

Just as she found her weapons, moontime kicked her tender belly like a rutting hallabuck. She flinched and whined to no one.

“Mmf – _Fenedhi-i-his!”_

Though both Una _and_ Deshanna used to scold her for the sin, Veyla never gave up cursing at Sylaise. The Dread Wolf? _Please._ It was _The_ _Hearthkeeper_ who plied her tricks on undeserving souls.

Moontime never tortured Veyla’s womb with the regularity most she-elves seemed to boast. However, be it short or be it long, pass two dozen moons or fifty in-between, Veyla’s moon was _always_ terrible. _This_ time, she’d realized it first when wrestling with Dorian between her knees. She wasn’t _certain_ how a coinpurse smelled, but she had a mortified idea.

A blight on her. A _blight_ on that Sylaise.

When Veyla’s womb first bled, Una told her exercise and sex relieved the ache. Veyla never found it true – the _exercise,_ at least. Used to be, when moonsore Veyla’d lay in bed and hide. A woman now, she would _not_ be deterred by petty pain. Still, in practice she expected no relief.

And as for sex? She could only wonder _how_ Miss Una came to know. Naïve virgin that she was, even Veyla recognized that Dalish men bore bloody  _edhas_ ample berths. From onset until death, mooning Dalish women even _bathed_ alone.

With a crudeness lacking ceremony, Veyla stuffed her flow-intended wrappings down her shorts. She could not be bothered to untangle them and don them properly, such was her resentment of her lot. Thus encumbered and now stooping from the spreading pangs, Veyla grabbed her weapons with a stubborn grunt and grinding teeth.

Her practice grounds were still and dewy in the dead of nearly morning. Though her ears hummed with lacking sleep, the rest of her was quiet. Her itch for Cole, her worry for her brother, her curiosity at Una’s note, her hunting trial with Aaran looming two mere days away – _everything_ fell to the wayside ‘til only Veyla's wrists and blades were left.

Unwieldy with discomfort, she spent her foot-still time exploring the effects of different grips and throwing styles. Some she’d seen Cole use in his instruction, others were her own. How _easily_ her newly sharpened eyes took perfect aim for granted, mastering the target she once loathed. As Veyla toyed with her techniques, her throws drove every razor-edg’d sister sweetly home. As before, her concentration sank the world around her into nothingness. 

* * *

 

The Dread Wolf’s moonlit search for Fen'Namas did not last long. Once lust ebbed _just_ enough for Fen’Harel to sense his soulmate’s status scrawling ‘cross his heart, he turned on his bare heels and headed back to base.

He could feel her _outrage,_ yes, but Una’s whereabouts remained at large.

A quick glance ‘round their den told Solas nothing. He calmly sat himself at Una’s tidy desk, seeking a glimpse into her day. _My,_ but his lovely mate had been productive – the whiskey crates of letters weren’t just lessened. They were _gone._

Cullen’s marriage announcement beckoned from atop her desk’s remaining stack of correspondence, crisp linen folded ‘twixt a sheet of gilded scarlet. Solas flipped the invitation open with his thumb to have a peek.

_[…] humbly beseeching_

_Lady Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Vanquisher of the Elder One, Sealer of the Breach, Savior of Thedas_

_& _

_Solas_

_for the pleasure of their company […]_

The Dread Wolf’s face went soft as he re-read their titles juxtaposed in scrawling script, his unguarded expression wholly charmed.

_My precious heart. The roster of your feats weighs long and burdensome for one so young. Eight thousand years from now, perhaps just ‘Una’ will suffice. The drams of ink we timeless two could save with pseudonymic brevity. U &S._

A smirking afterthought. _Ah, vhenan, but where your comely coattails take me. I do not recall Commander Cullen taking pleasure in **my** company, nor I in his. _

He slid his thumb aside to let the stiffened card fall smartly shut. There was another invitation just beneath: An unassuming half-sheet of roughly handled parchment, smudged with two uniquely messy sets of fingerprints. Kohl or ink, it seemed for one, the second set some oily mess of food.

Such mishandling of paper set his bibliophilic heckles rising ere Solas parsed the limerick henscratched on the back of Varric’s name-day invitation. As he read his smirk went wan, his eyes went flat and flatter still.

 

_Now comes the time to pen an ode_

_To she who helms with plaits of gold_

_What better means have I to goad_

_Acomoclitic quarry?_

_She hunts the man her love bestow’d_

_He is a bald and cocky chode_

_The wolf who stole her Dalish woad_

_And left her nugatory_

_Ipseity at last bestrode_

_Her want of him has not plateaued_

_From her wise mind all wits have flowed_

_In spite of his vainglory_

_I hear the maid does not explode_

_Who bears an old god’s pent-up load_

_Ah! 'Tis a long and hardened road_

_The rut of Elvhen Glory_

**_Eugh._ **

Solas set the jest aside to cringe and scowl. The greasy fingerprints transformed from crude offense to justice. Though he cared for Varric in his way, Fen’Harel would _not_ attend that name-day party.

Quite frankly, he would rather quaff five cups of bitter tea.

Refocused on his search for information, Solas leaned sideways in Una’s chair to check the drawer where ancient poison lived. Inside, he found only acrid air and a rolling mess of empty silver vials.

_I see. How long since her last draught?_

Solas stilled, fingers lingering with thoughtful strokes on Una’s ornate drawer-pull. Eyes of blue-gray steel jumped to her well-kempt bed and reconfirmed her absence. His was the first and only hand to shut Una’s poor beleaguered desk drawer with a gentle _fwump._ The thing knew only slamming.

_How long, vhenan? How long? Where-ever could she be? Ar’diratha, greedy cur, what have you done?_

Una _mustn’t_ be asleep and out of reach. She simply mustn’t. If _that_ were true, he’d lose her to the Fade and spend a hundred lifetimes searching for her maybe-corpse. Immediately ashamed at the self-indulgent wolf in him for staying gone too long, Fen’Harel surged to his feet and rushed to Una’s wardrobe. With these doors, his touch was less than gentle. _Slam!_

 _Oh,_ but Una’s clothes were thick with being _hers._ As he took quick stock, the same exquisite scent that left him heartsick at her door in bygone days set Fen’Harel ablaze with longing. Repressed sexual tension drove the pensive man to chew his bottom lip as rushing eyes went scanning.

Thanks to seasons spent admiring at her side, he knew Una’s every stitch of raiment both for days of peace and war. Leaving off the robes she’d left a’heaping in the grass beside his feet, her wardrobe only lacked the padded undermuslins meant to compliment her Inquisition platemail. 

The metal suit was forged to fit her body, yes, but she insisted to her counsel that the weight of it distracted from the Fade. (Be still, an old man’s beating heart! He still recalled the day.)

On official Inquisition business, a cotton tabard of regalia always met her needs. The suit hung long-forgotten on an armor-stand in Una’s Skyhold quarters, glinting even as it gathered dust. He deduced she must’ve made for Skyhold, then, to fetch her showy gear. Now, armor donned, his lady could be _anywhere._

This discovery did not upset Solas. The opposite, in fact: his next breath wafted with relief. Una was not fool enough to march half-starved of slumber into hell. Also, she’d been taking the _venuth_ for only days. Whatever Una’s plans were, then, Fen’Harel deduced she was awake and feeling fine. One does not love The Inquisitor and _fret_ when she goes questing.

But _what,_ in all the realm of tenuously peaceful Thedas, could Fen’Namas need _armor_ for in dead of night?

Ah.

Fen’Harel snatched up the unassuming wad of paper left behind on Una’s bureau. When Oric’s crumpled words revealed her likely – nae, her _certain –_ whereabouts, what few anxieties remained gave way to dark amusement. Solas laughed a deep and toothy laugh, rich with satisfaction and conceit.

 _Depose **indeed!**_ _I fear Ferelden’s ruling class will find my woman less than acquiescent. Ah, my love! How could you leave to tear a senate down without me?_

Fen’Harel felt truly _young_ again, as only Fen’Namas could make him do. Defiance washed his soul, defining him just as it used to.

Light-footed and a’smirk with prideful revelry, Solas sauntered ‘cross the stream to snatch his staff and change the wrappings on his feet. As his hands sent leather hissing through the air around his legs, Fen’Harel indulged his anarchistic heart in many fantasies at once. The thrill of witnessing upheaval! The futile things that jealous _shemlen_ King would say! The way his Valkyrie would sigh, victorious and beautiful. The impassioned praise he’d whisper in her golden hair while helping Fen’Namas to shed her heavy armor. The _glorious_ triumphant sex they’d have while Alistair sat beaten and alone. The Dread Wolf would make to bathe her, and he’d take her in the pebbled shallows ere they slept.

Bathing her...that night before he slept. Suddenly, Fen’Harel recalled the vision of his blister-fingered daughter spent and stubborn in her grassy practice grounds, recalled the fearless way she menaced him at Madrie’s. She’d been begging for adventure since the morning they first met. At once, he straightened up and made to fetch her.

Escorting Veyla to behold The Inquisitor’s retort ‘gainst those who dare encroach upon her station? He could conceive no finer lesson for a blossoming young woman, nor any better way to make amends. 

* * *

 

Fen’Harel heard Veyla practicing before he saw her, though the whisper of her craft was slight. Staff and moon both glinted on his head as Solas stood and watched her in the hush of nearly-morning. Veyla’s wrist was quick, her aim was sure and tireless. Fen’Harel was too impressed to wonder _why_ his little halla calf was still awake, let alone whence throwing blades arrived.

When Fen’Harel beheld his daughter’s newly mastered focus, he swelled with satisfaction far beyond a girl’s triumphant teacher. _Ah,_ the newnesses his Dalish women made him feel. To love a mortal child this way, to watch her grow, so **_quickly_** – it filled Solas with a prideful pain his ancient heart had never known. When he recalled his Una mourning Veyla’s mortal death from up on high, a gut-pang closed his eyes.

He spoke then, unexpected. He came out of the woods and leaned his shoulder ‘gainst a tree, just to Veyla’s right.

“Most impressive. In the absence of my tutelage, _da’halla_ seems to thrive.”

A fatal flaw – Veyla jumped and screamed in startled fright, every bit as shaken as that morning when her godly _hahren_ slapped a book beside her head. She clutched her heart and stumbled back as Solas clicked his tongue.

“Fine marksmanship does not avail oblivious combatants. Heed your surroundings, child.”

Veyla gasped her words. _“Mala fenedhis lasa, papae!_ It’s – _(breathe) –_ It’s the _middle_ of the **_night!”_**

“So it is. Make ready, _da’vhenan._ Your first armed excursion is with me.”

For once, his halla calf did not need telling twice. Though on the sunrise end of an all-nighter, his invitation sowed a second wind in her. Veyla beamed, she squealed, she threw her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest. Solas cupped his hand against the back of Veyla’s head and held it there. His downward gaze was soft, as was his voice.

“We hasten ‘gainst the rising sun. Be quick. Remove that _shemlen_ garbage from your face.”

He saw her blush. She giggled, and she whispered _wait right here!_ He watched her rush away, resigned yet gutsour at the memory of catching kind Compassion whispering hot and heavy in his grinning daughter’s ear.

_Darling, fearless child. When your great-grandchildren’s bones are naught but dust, Fen’Harel will still recall the day you shared his cake and called him papae._


	46. Bleed◈

* * *

 

Though Bernadette shed tears of worry over Master Tethras when he disappeared, his old friends both knew better. Late that night as they lay nude and basking in each other’s afterglow, Hawke and Fenris chuckled at their treasured Varric and his antics.

Fenris had not been at _all_ surprised to find the dwarven rogue miraculously re-spawned at home, spinning stories with a tankard in his hand. To illustrate a point, Varric yanked his crimson kirtle overhead to bare the ruddy bruise that crossed his muscled back.

_“Sure’s shit, threw us both right through the floor, three stories! It’s a wonder we survived!”_

Fenris’ alarm was forced and drawling. _“Those troll-riding bastards. I’ll be sure to tell Anna all about it.”_

Varric wagged a finger in his face as Fenris stood to leave, his empty flagon thudding hollow on a blade-scarred table fit for twenty.“ _The hell you will! Your stories make the paint peel, Broody. You run home and tell Hawke I miraculously survived, and **I’ll** fill in the rest.”_

Fenris’ impression of the dwarf was terrible. Hawke snorted laughter as she twisted in her lover’s lyriglyphic arms and licked his face from chin to bottom lip. Enticed, he bowed his head to nibble on her ear and chuckle back.

He’d stopped the flinching years ago – her faintest touch was now his greatest pleasure. Anna grabbed his tattooed arse to pull him closer, clamping her soft thighs against his hips. Her musculature was not the rigid stone it used to be; her legs were supple now, her skin rosepetal-soft against his own. Though The Champion traded whip-sure sinew in for yielding flesh, Fenris was enamored just the same. (She would playfully berate him all the time for being born an elf – _his_ physique was easy-won, in spite of heavy drinking.)

Her toes curled behind him as she whispered. “Your _stories_ make the paint peel, do they?” Purring, fingers ghosting up his mark’d back. _“And what about the rest of you?”_

When Fenris drew back from her ear to size her up, she heard a pensive rumble deep within his chest. His green-gray gaze was steady, sultry, playful. His bedroom eyes drove Hawke to coyly chew her lip and grin – they always had, they always would.

He broke the stare and gave her outer thighs a pat, pretending to dismount. “Mm. If you have to ask, I suppose the rest of me must not be very – “

Hawke slapped his chest. “Oh, shut _up!_ You know I – “

Swift and unexpected as that stormy night when savage passion knocked her breathless, Fenris surged against her for a second round. She gripped his hair. She moaned his name against his pressing mouth, and he moaned hers. As his familiar force bore Anna sinking deep into their mattress, her every fiber buzzed with bliss eternal.

 

* * *

  

_He made a life, even if it was alone._

_That's the world._

_Everything you build, it tears down._

_Everything you've got, it takes – and it's gone forever._

_The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going._

**_He_ ** _kept going._

 

**_That's as close to beating the world as anyone gets._ **

 

* * *

 

 

Norah felt The Hanged Man’s bard was overpaid and underworked. After a few drinks, the ugly blighter graveled like a toothless old mabari. He sounded worse when sober. The grisly fellow ended with the same song every night, a ballad written by some mournful bastard named _Anon_.

 

_…He said y’ca-a-annot live in the ocean_

_An’ she sai-i-id to him, y’never can live in the sky…_

 

The minstrel played and sang the whole thing twice, per his whimsical employer’s strict instructions. Once to clear the bar – it worked – and once again to melodize with Varric’s nightly contemplations in the cluttered hush that followed closing time.

Tonight and every night, while Thedan Greats he’d risked his life ‘longside of made their love on sweaty sheets, while hordes of lonely women slicked their nightslips thanks to his romantic prowesses in print, Varric sat companionless and listened. (This habit was a conscious, scripted thing. For a stymied suitor such as he, to spend his private hours remembering was the proper and _romantic_ thing to do.)

Some nights he would stare at his broke-nosed reflection in a nearly-empty tankard, reliving old memories both fond and sad. He could still recall the way his heart lubbed when that brown-eyed beauty matched his heretofore unrivaled bullshit tit for tat – they traded lies for _months_ before she riddled him her name.

On learning it – her name – he _should_ have walked away. By then, the lovesick lad forgot the sense his darling mother spent a lifetime smacking into him. Months after that, Lord Davri broke young Varric’s nose and nearly slit his gizzard. Some would say it served him right; his nose would disagree.

Those nights, Norah brusquely swept the floor ‘neath Varric’s chair. To snap him from his drunken reverie, she’d call her boss a mopey hairy bastard as the song came to an end. He’d laugh, he’d make a booze-slurred comeback ‘fore he tottered up the stairs.

 _Other_ nights, he’d stand and walk with thudding boots around the empty bar – _his_ bar, the bar he bought to fill the void where some men kept their wives and children. Those nights, he’d run his fingers ‘long the back of every empty seat he passed and wonder who would miss ole’ Varric when The Maker called him home.

 _Those_ nights, Norah let him be.

This night was of the latter type. Reflective rounds completed, Varric drained his final pint and set it on the corner of the bar. Ruddy-faced with spirits, he plodded towards the stairway as his song drew to a close.

 

_…But I’ll always preten-n-nd you’re mine…_

 

_Name-day is tomorrow. ‘Ought to get some sleep._

Though all dwarves were paragons of holding booze, as Varric climbed he clutched the polished handrails for dear life.

 

* * *

 

 

The sight of Cole sprawled out before his crackling hearth warmed Varric’s sozzled heart. He lingered in the doorway of his quarters with a loving smile of wonder on his face. He crossed his arms, he leaned his aching shoulder ‘gainst the jamb. Even as he spoke, Varric knew his offer wouldn’t rouse Cole from the near-comatic sleep of disembarking from his high. Still, it looked _uncomfortable,_ lying fully prone on planking without so much as a pillow.

“Take th’bed, Kid. Told you, I don’t use it.”

The aging tabby cat was half-asleep between Cole’s shoulders, and he watched Varric’s approach through slotted eyes. His foreboding was spot-on; when Varric stooped to scoop the purring feline, Ser Pounce-a-Lot maintained his curled-up posture while he _meowrled_ with disapproval.

Varric’s murmured bargaining was strained with ale and the exertion of his aching back. _“Cuhhhm’on,_ old man. Y’got four legs. Find yer _own_ way t’the soddin’ bed.”

Varric moved to set his orphaned roommate gingerly aside above Cole’s head. He took a knee, he arched his spine and cracked it with a groan to brace himself for picking up a man not _half_ as weightless as his fluid steps led people to believe. Varric ‘ought to know - it wouldn’t be his first time schlepping this unconscious carcass to a better place.

Her chuckle was so gentle, he was certain he imagined it.

“Bad back? You talk to tomcats now? I can’t tell if you’re going soft, or getting old, or both.”

All aches and pains and worries over Cole forgotten, Varric surged to stand and spin around. The room kept swirling when he stopped.

The shocking vision nearly slapped him sober. There she was, the muse for every kiss he ever wrote, looking so at home and beautiful in his favorite armchair he was _certain_ of delirium. She’d pulled his curtains shut. Her hood was back, and she regarded him with saucy fondness. With firelight dancing on his broken face, he addressed her with more reverence than he ever bore Andraste.

“ _Bianca_. Maker, _look at you.”_

No coy blush, no fluttering lashes - she had never been the sappy type. Still, her half-smile filled his soul with more reward than fivescore window-rattling fits of laughter.

“You don’t look half-bad yourself. Happy name-day, Varric.”

With that, the silent star-crossed lovers stared at one another to the tune of crackling timber.

Their last parting had been hostile. The red lyrium, the bold-faced lies, the risks, the cost – Varric felt, to put it frank, disgusted. Disappointed. _Betrayed._ All of this ‘neath Una’s nosey, well-intentioned looking-on and weighing in.

When the covert lovers reconvened in private to discuss Bianca’s unintended treachery, the discussion quickly de-evolved to mudslinging. _Not_ the flirty kind. Where her accusations were beyond injurious, he felt _his_ were…off-color, perhaps? But justified.  (In truth, his words were no less cruel. Bianca roiled with rage for _weeks_. When she rode her husband's cock, she moaned and carried on as though her jilted lover watched.)

Hurt feelings brought the lovesick addict sudden clarity – Maker’s taint, what was he _doing_ with his life? That night as he sat and mulled alone in Skyhold, Varric forced himself to leave their tragic past behind and break it off. Good riddance, cross-your-heart-or-die.

The letters stopped. He closed and locked their lifelong tryst, he gave away the key. He even broke a promise of his own, bridge-burning for good measure. (Speaking of – the offending novel’s finished draft was _right_ beside her hand. Varric begged the Maker that Bianca hadn’t read it. Surely not. She wasn’t much for books, aside from crafting.)

In spite of his resolve, it was a half-baked quit – they always were. Though the war was finished, Varric brought Bianca with him everywhere he went. He spoke to her in private and in public. In fact, he thought about Bianca every time he saw a sunset. Or a workshop. Or something _just_ the proper shade of brown. Or a lovely woman with an ugly husband, or a giddy pair of lovers. Or the bottom of a flagon.

Now here his object of addiction sweetly sat. In spite of his impassioned resolutions, Varric’s willfully indentured heart had no means or motive to reject her.  Bianca was his one true love, a blessing most men only _dreamed_ to have. Regardless of the world’s malicious plots, just _how_ could _that_ be folly?

Brokk said it best on page 283: _Fret not for me, my sweet Lyneth. Beside your beauty, how could petty time and distance sting me? Whether I behold you once a year or every morning, my heart will ache to love you just the same._

And so it was.

As if pulled by a magnet, Varric shot across the room and took a knee beside Bianca’s chair. He swept her hand up in his own and squeezed it tight, he pressed her knuckles with his salty lips. His words, though tinged with fret and foamy stout, adored her just the same.

“Maker’s _grace,_ B. What’re you _doing_ here? Whass’isname will –“

“Oh, will you _relax._ I spiked Bogdan’s wine, and our families are…distracted. You’re perfectly safe.”

How many times can someone say _‘yeah **right** ’_? Though wise to her placations, Varric and his broken nosebridge didn’t say a word. They were both too stupid-pleased to argue.

Bianca smiled like a queen as she reclaimed her hand to rise. When she stood, so did he. He watched as she perused around his quarters, gesturing with comments.  She would cast a fleeting glance his way every-so-often, and every time his heart would sing. “Velvet drapes… _two_ fireplaces… this gorgeous desk, the ah… _enchanting_ music. You’ve really saved this dump, Varric. I _like_ it.”

Watching her, enraptured. “Yeah? You think so? You don’t think the mermaid fountain out front is a little too, ah…garish? The neighbors _have_ complained.”

Bianca poked her head between the curtains, playing to his jest. “You kidding? It’s _divine._ Oh, and the hobo-looking guy puking his guts out next to it is a nice touch. Derelict performances are all the rage in Val Royeaux, but _vomiting?_ _Very_ avant-garde. Bra- _vo!”_

When Varric laughed out loud, Cole didn’t stir. Ser Pounce-a-Lot, having reassumed his favored post, went flat-eared with annoyance. He glared across the room with a furry countenance that asked, **_Seriously,_** _old man? Do you **hear** yourself? **Pathetic.**_

“Glad you noticed! Took me weeks to find an actor who could really get that _piss-drunk hobo_ vibe down pat. Ah, on that note…You hungry, baby? Want a pint?”

He was always first to drop a pet name. It always rattled tinny, and it made her lovely shoulders shirk; he noticed every time. It used to sting his pining heart. These days, he understood.

Bianca smiled from beside his window as she let the curtains go. “Nah. Thanks.” She chuckled – “By the Ancestors, I don’t remember The Hanged Man being so hospitable!”

Varric was still staring like a spellbound fool. He watched the hearthflames dance in light and shadow on her face. “You could’ve kicked my chair, thrown something – ”

“You were busy. That was Fenris, wasn’t it? He _does_ look grumpy.” She crossed the room, she stooped to marvel at Cole while he slept. Her analytic words were self-directed. “This must be the spirit. Showed up out of _nowhere_ a few hours ago, fell right to sleep, didn’t even see me…Wouldya look at that. He even drools like you.”

Proud, if not distracted. “Damn straight. Taught ‘im everything he knows.”

“ _That’s_ a scary thought.”

At last, Bianca wound up back at Varric’s desk. She stopped ‘longways across from him and rocked on anxious feet. For all his infatuation, Varric failed to catch her nerves. He misread her as impatient, maybe cross.

“Sweets, I talk to Broody every sodding night. You should’ve just – How long’ve you been _up_ here, anyway?”

When her voice dropped low, he tucked tail like a scolded cur. “Long enough to read this.” She locked eyes and reached to give his looseleaf work a tap, arching an accusatory brow.

Varric fought the truth with every wit his Dwarf-drunk mind could summon. “Ohhhh. I get it now. You know, you’re not the _first_ woman to break into my quarters for a sneak-peak at a draft, but I gotta say, you’re the _last_ person I tho - ”

Quietly. “You swore you’d never.”

His voice dragged on a stalling note, he rubbed behind his neck and made a puzzled face too sheepish to be honest. “Ahh-h-h…Say what?”

“Don’t play the sod, Varric! You _promised_ me you’d never write this. Sixteen years…why _now?_ Is this your idea of getting back at me?”

Varric tacked and jibed. Bianca saw straight through his ale-blurred bullshit; her trademark glower cut him off at every pass and knocked him down three pegs from indignant denial to begging. “Get _back_ at you? For _wha_ – Don’t be – _C’mon,_ B. There’s a part of you in _everything_ I write, you’re so – It’s _not_ us, baby! It’s not the same!”

Bianca snatched the manuscript and waved it in his face. She began to yell. Cole, persistently dead-cold asleep, was deaf to her rebuttal and all drama that ensued. “Oh! I’m _sorry!_ I suppose I should have _specified_ that _changing our **sodding** names _doesn’t _count!”_

She threw the papers down. They went spilling sloppy in an out-of-order mess. As he watched his treasured pages go cascading from the desktop to the floor, all Varric did was flinch and hold his hands aloft with wounded eyes – whether drunk or sober he was _useless_ in an argument, avoided them at any cost.

Well, maybe not _useless_ , but miserable at least. His beseeching voice was quieter than hers.

“Did you _make it_ to the end? Lyneth’s father doesn’t break Brokk’s _nose,_ Bianca. He slits his sodding throat.”

Her scornful whisper ran his guts straight through. “You were out cold. He damn near _did.”_

It was no small feat to make this woman cry. She sniffed, she turned her back on him, and Varric died inside. He rounded the desk to hug her from behind, muttering an apology into her russet hair.  

“You got me, alright? I was feeling uninspired, so I just - …I’m sorry. I wasn’t gonna _print_ it, sweets. Just…sharpening my instrument.”

Bianca allowed the hug but didn’t soften. She sobbed, then growled disgust as though she loathed herself for crying. “Unbelievable. _Everyone_ in your life is just – they’re just _fodder_ to you.”

Though he was hurt, he swallowed it and joked. “You think I’m _imaginative_ enough to write this stuff from scratch? I tried that once! It flopped so hard I had to wine and dine my agent for a month. He made me write a _Chantry_ rag, Bianca. With my name on it.”

Bianca laughed through her tears. “I know,” _sniff, laugh_ – “It’s _terrible!”_

“Oh, of _course._ The love of my life can’t bother reading _any_ of my good shit, but be damned if she hasn’t read _The Chant of Night.”_

She shrugged in his arms. He felt her guard begin to soften as she let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her hands sought out the muscled arms that crossed above her waist, hesitantly worrying at his gold-embroidered cuff. “Business was slow. Some nobleman’s bored wife forgot her copy in the shop. It’s banned, you know.”

Varric muttered just above her ear, attentive fingers reaching out to stroke the silken backside of her timid hand. In spite of nearly-constant gloves, his dwarven touch was rough. “Forgot? _Abandoned_ it, more like. And _yeah,_ I _know._ Thanks for the reminder.”

They shared a little laugh, a silence after that.

Warily, she grumbled: “If you print that shit, I’ll rip your tongue out through your ass.”

Varric shut his eyes and grinned into her hair. “Yes ma’am. You’re the boss.”

“Damn right I am.”

“…I love it when you talk like that.”

 _“Oh,_ shove it up your ass and save it.”

She squirmed. He eased his grip so she could turn to face him. Beside his able-bodied dwarven lady, Varric was in every way a giant – she had to lift her chin to look him in the eyes.

When Varric bowed his head to kiss away an errant tear, he spied the fleeting smile that flashed across her lips. His great hand slid across her lower back to pull her close; at that, her smile returned to stay. His fingers circled the ornate penannular that kept Bianca’s cloak secure upon her shoulder, House Vasca’s garnet-studded heraldry in silver. It made his eyelid twitch, but Bianca didn’t notice.

When he leaned close to whisper in her ear, his coarsely bristled jawline grazed her cheek. His hand sank lower, possessive fingers spreading ‘cross her backside, squeezing, _pulling_ , always pulling closer. Varric murmured husky, boozy, flirty. “So, gorgeous. You’re telling me you came here, _all_ the way from Orlais in the middle of the night, to nose around my sodding desk?”

He did not wait to hear her answer. Bianca’s fingers crept against his half-bared chest as Varric’s sucking lips began to carve a glistening path down from her ear. Her whisper sounded breathless, _helpless._ “Varric, I-… I came to say goodbye.”

Even as she spoke, Bianca’s head fell sideways in forbidden invitation. His head sank lower then, rough stubble leaving blotches on her skin.  His hot mouth worshipped, his strong hands kneaded at her body with suggestions. A’flutter with desire, her dark eyes scanned the wall behind him for a strength that wouldn’t come.

It was not insensitive that Varric brushed her off. Theirs was an old song, a dance of guilt and lust now nearing double-decades old – she told him it was over _every_ time. So absorbed was he in making up for months of distance, in the salty _taste_ of her, Varric didn’t catch the undertone of desperation in her voice. His smoldering response was muffled ‘gainst the bare crook of her neck.

“’Zat right? Leaving so soon?”

Breathy, dizzy, melting with defeat. _“Wuh, wait. Varric,_ I’m – ”

When his teeth began to graze her slick and shivering flesh, Bianca lost the battle and her tongue. Besotted as he was, Varric hardly paid her stunted protestations mind – he was _far_ too busy dragging heady kisses up-and-down Bianca’s long-desired neck as he bluntly guided her to shuffle backwards through his chamber door.

To Varric, that she melted with a whine of longing was the only truth that mattered.

She shouldn’t. She _shouldn’t._ But…she did. That she lost herself to passion was a cruelty Bianca couldn’t help. Assertive woman that she was, Varric’s unique brand of romance left her wet and trembling. 

His tender kiss was living poetry the likes of which most dwarven women never _dreamed_ , and yet – he was a _Dwarf._ His handling struck her instincts to the core in ways her penitent Kalna husband _never_ did. He was nearly twice her size, and _everywhere_ – he grabbed, he pushed rock-hard and strong, he boldly cupped and kneaded at the muggy heat that pooled in chocolate curls between her thighs. Such a juggernaut was he, there was naught to do but clutch his muscled shoulders and be taken. Bianca stumbled backwards at his bidding, too overcome with need to face the guilt that gnawed her lust-lit belly.

When Varric’s bootheel slammed his bedroom door, she gasped. When his nimble touch sent House Vasca’s crest of silver clinking to the floor and her heavy cloak ‘long with it, Bianca knit her fingers at his scalp and yanked his mouth to hers. Her desperate grip unbound his rusty hair to send it spilling stringy ‘round the edges of her face.

The forbidden ale on Varric’s tongue drove poor Bianca _mad_ with longing. Once her heavy mantle puddled to the floor below, she brought one knee against his wide and sturdy waist – Varric caught and held it, as he always did. He ground his rigid lust against her eager body none too gently, even as he kissed her like a prince. Hard at work devouring one another, they steered their tangled chaos ever-closer to the deshyr’s empty bed.

Beneath the cloak, Bianca wore a dress. It was a lovely thing, a gauzy slip of lavender with pearls for bodice buttons. Varric only noticed when he broke their kiss and hooked a hand behind her _other_ knee to send his gasping Valkyrie spilling backward on the bed.

Bootsoles firm a’ground, Varric stilled between her knees. He beheld her then, the only girl he’d ever loved splayed out upon his lonely bedspread like a painting. She _glowed._ Airy fabric draped her every lavish curve more beautifully than anything he’d ever written – her figure made the clouds seem plain, it rendered gods and oceans _trifling_ things. His awestruck eyes roved up and down her luscious body before resting on her face – his intense attention flushed her cheeks.  

His artful tongue was at a total loss; the wordsmith’s praise was brief and throaty.

“You’re beautiful.”

It was _not_ a dwarven thing to do, stopping mid-advance to cherish. It _was_ something Varric sometimes did, especially when drunk. Bianca loved the kisses, but the _words –_ they felt too real, too vulnerable, too jarring. She’d never taken them with grace.

Her dark eyes rolled before they flitted to the side. “You _are_ going soft on me.”

A longing for affection flashed across his heart. He’d insisted after proclamations such as this in seasons past; he killed the mood and lost Bianca to discomfort _every_ time. To save them both, he smirked and teased as she preferred. _(Oh, to be a dwarf: drunk and uninhibited, yet somehow sharp-of-wit.)_

“Hang on a minute here. You’re wearing pretty dresses now, and _I’m_ the one who’s going soft?”

She jabbed him with her bootheels as one does to reprimand a most unruly horse. Behemoth that he was, he smirked and didn’t flinch. “Sod off, you ass. My pants don’t fit right anymore.”

He drummed his fingers once behind her knees. If she were any other woman, he’d take the bait and pay a hundred honest compliments.

Bianca didn’t fish. She dealt in snark and facts.

“If you say so, princess.”

For love’s sake, Varric shut his mouth. With an ominous rumble in his chest, he leaned down to give his choosy lady what she liked.

His swift grip tore fragile gauze to bare her buxom breasts; they heaved with her sharp gasp. The quick and noisy **_rrrip_** of flimsy fabric pierced her mind and flushed her worried thoughts away. At once, she sunk into the moment and she stayed. Hand-threaded pearls scattered ‘round his bedspread, glinting and forgotten. Several _ting-tinged_ to the floor and rolled around the room.

It is every dwarven woman’s inborn fancy to be nearly-smothered by her lover’s force. While Varric’s bootheels kept the floor, he pounced her with his upper body’s weight and pressed her deep into his bed. She reached up to clutch the fabric on his back. His shoulders were so broad, her fingers couldn’t meet behind them.

His hands were rough and massive, as a dwarven man’s _should_ be, but Varric seized her bosom gently, _gently._ Though flat upon her back, Bianca’s ample breasts spilled past his loving grip in all directions. His bedroom hearth was sparkless; on contact with the chill, her wide nipples drew to tightly wrinkled pinpricks. He strummed her aching hardness with his textured thumbs to hear his lady gasp and whine, he grazed the gooseflesh of her breasts with nibbling lips. Through all of this, they rutted through their clothes like randy teens.

Though he _longed_ to drown his face against her body’s endless softness, Varric was too kind to grate Bianca’s skin with the coarse stubble of his cheeks. (The abrasion of his shaven face was something he was ever-mindful of. He’d scraped her bosom raw some sixteen years ago, and never had again.)

Instead, his tongue went sharp to trace her nipple’s bumpy border. _Oh,_ the way she sweetly squirmed and _whined –_ she’d _never_ taken such electric pleasure at the breast. _Must be the cold,_ delighted Varric wrongly fancied. When he began to suckle, those whines went high and desperate and she snatched up fistfuls of his hair.

Her eyes were overrun with blotchy colors. Bianca was so lost to him that she could hardly see, nor hear herself begin to plead. But she could _feel._ She felt his hair between her fingers. She felt his hands, his tongue, his _grinding_ heat. Varric spared one kneading hand to pull Bianca’s flimsy skirts up ‘round her waist. Still fully dressed, he ground his potent dwarfhood ‘gainst her fine Orlesian underthings and grabbed her hip to hold her body firm against his thrust. Thick laces bound his bulging crotch. As Varric mouthed her aching breast and frotted rough against her sopping silks, each criss-crossed strand of leather strummed across her swollen clit to make Bianca quiver like a harpstring.

A seasons-long refrain was ample foreplay; she had waited long enough. Bianca gripped his hair to pull him from her breast, seal breaking with the most delicious little _pop_. He leaned further forward at her bidding as Bianca pulled his enflamed mouth against her own to steal a second kiss and bring the rest of him in reach.

His endless shoulders sheltered all of her – safe, _so_ safe, and yet so _desperate_. Their lips locked as she fumbled madly at the dampened laces of his pants, her helpless hips still writhing underneath him. She snarled frustration; her yanking frenzy only made the knotted bindings more secure. He chuckled in their kiss, apparently quite entertained. Bianca tore _his_ tunic open then, exposing Varric’s stone-carved body to the waist. Where _he_ stood back and marveled, she sucked his tongue and dragged her nails across his furry, sculpted stomach like a sex-starved beast.

As she destroyed his shirt, Varric reached between her legs to hook his finger in the knotted laces of his breeches. With one swift jerk, he snapped the cord in twain.

Quiet lover that he was, Varric couldn’t help but whinge and groan into her mouth when grasping his erection to retrieve it from the ruined trappings of his pants. Sweet relief; his member was the sort that pointed straight and _hated_ bindings. Maker’s flaming _ass,_ she made his cock so stiff it hurt and turned the color of a bruise _._

He shoved his pants down ‘round his stocky legs. His hardness brushed against her inner thigh and set her keening. When she broke their kiss to jerk his hair again and take his earring in her teeth, Varric recognized the threat and rushed to act. He hooked a finger in the sex-slicked crotch of her fine lingerie to guide the barrier of gossamer aside. Musk-soaked satin gathered in the downy groove twixt slit and thigh, and there it stayed.

Lest he explode, ( _and_ lest his dear Bianca rip his earring out), he promptly moved to take her. Her every muscle quivered when his purple-headed cock began to pierce. At _last,_ the longed for sting of Varric’s girth. Her mind went white, her every muscle quivered if it didn’t fail. She let his earring go and wilted like a flower with her cheek against the wiry pelt of his unyielding chest; his pounding heart and staggered breath consumed her ear. She reached down to hook her fingertips behind her thighs and spread her netherlips as wide as they would go, holding herself open to be taken. She groaned open-mouthed as Varric clutched her shapely waist and pulled her closer to the mattress edge, burrowing ever-deeper into her forbidden, squeezing, _burning_ bliss.

He’d never had her here; his bedframe’s height was _perfect._ Two lifting hands beneath her hips, and they were mated snug. When her tidy nest of curls pressed flush and sopping wet against his hirsute groin – wet with _want,_ for _him_ – Varric held Bianca there to savor what was his. He stilled to let her readjust, cock twitching with impatience.

She began to chant his name before he even started. To hear his own name begged beneath him, to feel her fingers digging little crescents in his flesh: He lived his life for fleeting moments such as these. Moments spent with _her._

When Bianca settled in enough to squirm with want, his broad hips began to move. As his cock made slow and steady work of pleasing her, she whined, she praised, she _cooed._ He watched her bite her lip as she moaned, **_Yes_.** When she murmured about love, he bent down to kiss and whisper back. His heavy neck-chain jangled rhythmic in the narrow space between them. She clicked her nails along the beaded path of gold behind his neck, she combed her fingers through his sweaty hair to keep it from his face.

She was being unusually… _romantic_. The poet in him was overjoyed, the dwarf in him perplexed.

People watcher that he was, Varric often waxed cerebral in the sack. Though his sex-starved body was _beyond_ delighted with the task at hand, inebriation dulled his physical sensations. No matter – be Varric drunk or sober, his body’s selfish quest for satisfaction _paled_ against his worship of Bianca in her splendor.

 _Again,_ she was a vision. This position was her favorite, and _Maker,_ did he love the view. The angle slid the fullness of her breasts towards her enraptured face; they sweetly bounced when he began to thrust. He watched her fluttering eyes roll white, he held her as she further arched her back. As the slapping of their bodies grew more urgent and his creaking bed began to rattle ‘gainst the wall, she let his shoulders go to grip the sheets above her head. He watched her sleek brown hair grow ever-messier with friction ‘gainst his bed. When she began to pant with lilting cries, her parted lips were pink and juicy as the flesh he sweetly plowed.

It didn’t _matter_ where she lived. Who she married. What she did. Even if he only saw her every other lifetime, Bianca’s ecstasy belonged to _him._

When her cries grew desperate, one strong hand left her hip to seek her pinnacle of pleasure. He leaned down to growl a quiet reassurance, voice thudding with his rhythm. “I’m right here, babe. I gotcha.”

As he whispered hot and hoppy in her face, she ran her fingers through the forest on his chest and clutched for keeps. Yanking at his chest hair made her quiet lover _rumble_ ; it granted satisfaction bordering on primal.

Her delta’s curly down was soft beneath his touch. Two fingers framed the apex of her sex and gently squeezed to roll her sopping flesh in circles, pleasuring her tender clit with her body’s own caress of slipping velvet. (He’d learned early on that his bare hands were far too rough to please her without hurting. Regardless of profession, the nimble-fingered suitors in his novels _always_ came with silky hands.)

As he rubbed, her rippling wetness pulled him in like quicksand. The hand that held her hips aloft squeezed harder at her buttocks, soft flesh white and bloodless ‘neath his gripping pressure. His head fell back as Varric shot a strained grunt at the ceiling, striving against booze and overwhelming pleasure to continue.

 _“Varric, **Varric** , **please** …” _Her cracking voice captured his attention. He looked down to find her making tearful doe-eyes up into his face, and he was _shattered._ Even when their lives were pure and simple, she _always_ closed her eyes when they made love.

The coos, the loving strokes, the eyes. Varric knew Bianca front to back, and _something_ wasn’t right. His sweaty forehead furrowed as he stared at her, bewildered adoration etched across face. He savored the rare gift of her shining eyes, even as they filled his heart with nameless dread.

Varric’s fingers were no strangers to precision under stress. Through all of this, he kept their passion mounting. Still, when Bianca’s bottom lip began to tremble, so did his. Though their hearts broke then for reasons Varric couldn’t understand, their bodies were too gone to double back.

Her lovely face contorted, her back arched high and wild. When he plunged his spongy head against her tightening wall and rubbed it there, her ecstatic wailing made him come. Though his pace _did_ falter and his sturdy knees _did_ shudder, his loving hand did not forsake her pleasure.

The stretching shove, the heated _fullness_ of his pulsing flood, the way his hulking body strained her hips and left them screaming sore. His salty sweat upon her lips, beading on the wiry hair between her fingers. _Oh,_ his mighty _trembling,_ his **_touch._** His _eyes._ Curse her wicked Ancestors, the eyes that watched her fall were beautiful and amber-flecked, they shimmered bright with awe and love.

Her mouth worked soundless as a tear slid down her temple, her head went light with lack of air – she couldn’t breathe, she didn’t _want_ to breathe. Her toes curled o’er the tingling edge, body _burning,_ vision blotching red with eyes wide open.

‘Til her dying day, Bianca _swore_ she felt cool wind whip ‘cross her face the last time Varric pushed her backwards into blissful velvet nothing. They watched each other as she fell straight through his bed, into the Void where some would say Elgar’nan kept the sun.

_Let this be it. Take me, little death, and keep me here._

Her drawn-out strangled groan shocked Norah so, the barmaid dropped and broke the night’s last dirty plate. The Hanged Man’s lodgings had no occupants tonight; she gaped up at the ceiling, positively scandalized. (Thanks once again to nonconsensual drugs, Compassion stayed asleep.)

Somewhere in the chaos, the tangled pair collapsed.

And there, at _last,_ lay the one and only Dwarven Great of Thedas. Cock softening inside the hard-won woman twitchy-cooing in his arms. Crumpled bedsheets clinging to his sweaty skin. Broad chest heaving deep with satisfaction. His ears buzzed, the room throbbed in his peripherals.

He felt unreal. He felt _fantastic._ He felt…complete.

Their feet were hanging short-ways off the bed, save Bianca’s leg that hooked around his brawny waist – comically, they both still boasted boots. Varric’s pants were bunched up ‘round his calves. Her pretty cheek was pressed against his heart, her hands still tangled in his chest hair. He tucked his chin to watch her nuzzling, heavy-lidded eyes of amber struggling to stay.

For those few moments, he forgot the dread. Then he remembered it, but fancied it a paranoid delusion.

When Bianca rejoined him in the world of the living, she began to weep against his chest.

He felt...numb, boozed, removed. He felt like he was dying. As he listened to Bianca cry, he stroked her silky hair. As she nuzzled him, his blank stare lingered on the trophy just above his hearth.  A tooth from that High Dragon he fought _lifetimes_ ago. Hawke made him keep the sodding thing; he didn’t even _like_ it. It sat here in this room he never used and gathered dust.  

He looked down at the crown of her head, her hair now smooth and flat from his persistent strokes. Varric did his best to save them with a jest, though jests had _never_ been enough to stop her fate from ruining their lives.

His voice frogged when he tried to speak. He cleared his vising throat, he tried again.

“It’s been a while, but…Shit, baby, was it _that_ bad?”

Bianca answered with a disbelieving laugh that cut her tears. She hugged him, tight and grateful. She repaid his joke, her words muffled against his chest.

“ _Relax,_ old stomper, you’ve still got it. Although, now that you mention _bad…_ I don’t _remember_ calling you ‘the most handsome thing that ever happened to me’ when we did it in the barn. And _if_ I came, it wasn’t ‘like a clap of thunder.’”

Varric returned her fierce embrace, still staring dumbly at the trophy on his mantle. His deep laugh rumbled underneath her cheek, it made her close her teary eyes and smile.  

“I can’t _believe_ you sat up here and finished the _entire_ sodding thing!”

Her voice went fond and gentle as she reminisced against his hairy chest. “I’m allergic to _hay,_ Varric. You left out the rash.”

“First rule of writing romance, sweets: Don’t talk about the rash.”

“And there wasn’t any _shaft of golden sunlight dancing on my face_ ; it was raining, and the roof was leaking on your back. There were _goats_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“Hey. If you’re not arguing with my _heart-stopping endowments,_ I call the hay-romp chapter a success. The rest is just semantics.” Smugly, “Certainly put _you_ in the mood.”

Her dark eyes rolled; he _always_ wore them out with rolling. “Fine, _fine._ I guess you’re good for _something_ , you old sod. Most folk with sense would rather _have_ sex than read about it, though.”

“Y’got _that_ right, Bianca baby, and cheers to those who can. The rest of us just take what we can get.” Another rumbling chuckle as he pinched her rump. She jumped and yanked his up-start chest hair before they settled down to nestle once again.

As they lay together, Bianca forgot her tireless rehearsals. Her heart seized and she blurted out of nowhere: “We can’t do this anymore. I’m going to have a child.”

Shock, of course. He didn’t recall sitting up, but suddenly he was, and so was she. He searched her face for mirth he couldn’t find – _Bianca wasn’t kidding._ Tactlessly, he looked her naked body over. Though early-on, the truth of it was obvious enough that he felt foolish for not…well, _noticing._

As if she read his mind, she quipped, “What? You thought I just got lazy?”

“Of course not. …Hooked on junk food, maybe? I’ve heard good things about Orlesian cake?”

When she glared, he held his hands up in surrender. “…Give me a break! I’ve been traipsing through the world behind an _elf_ all year, Bianca. I was just excited to see curves!”

She punched him, _hard._ He flinched, but didn’t rub it.

All jokes aside, he knit his brow and took her hand. “Bianca. Did he – ”

“No, he didn’t. He’s not that sort of man.”

Varric’s voice went smug. “Oh _really._ What sort of man _is_ he, then?”

“Oh, grow _up.”_

He grunted. His teeth began to grind as he stared into her eyes. “Sixteen _years,_ B, and you never – ” His voice softened suddenly; the topic of fertility was delicate for dwarves. “Babe, I didn’t think you _could.”_

She answered him matter-of-factly with her hand upon her naked belly. “Apparently, I can.”

The statement settled, pregnant on its own.

Bianca found her feet. Varric sat and watched her, a dumbstruck mess of tangled hair and sweat and sex. He didn’t fix his pants.

Her favorite dress was done for. Bogdan loved it, he _would_ notice. She would lie to his kind face and tell him fly ash ruined the skirt, and he would spend his coin in secret to have the thing re-crafted as a gift to please his treasured wife.

She tried in vain to brush Varric's ginger body hairs away, but evidence clung fast against her sweaty, sticky skin. She fished her slimy undergarments from the groove beside her sex to set them right. She used her ruined dress to wipe the musky come that smeared her inner thighs from crotch to knee, she tossed the soiled fabric on his floor. She donned her cloak, she re-attached the Vasca family crest. Through all of this, she kept her back to Varric.

He spoke behind her. Though he _should_ be devastated, all she could hear was shock and disbelief. Dwarven babes _were_ rare and precious – perhaps he’d take it better than she hoped.

“Your mother must be insufferable.”

Bianca scoffed at that. “She wants to name him Endrin. Already has a wife picked out, bought him more clothes than a nug’s got fleas.”

“It’s a boy? How the _hell_ do you know _that?_ ”

 _“I_ don’t; _she_ does. If it’s _not_ a boy, I’m pretty sure she’ll try to send it back.”

 **“That** doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Hah. Tell _her_ that.”

When she turned to look at him, she felt that she’d be sick. He was _not_ alright. She longed to rush away from him and wallow in her guilt, and yet…when he reached out and took her wrist, she slid into his naked lap and hugged her stricken lover tight.

His voice was distant. “You. A mother.”

She began to cry again; _infuriating._ These days, _laundry_ made her cry. _This?_ She’d cried about this night for nearly twenty years.

“Varric, I…I have to leave.”

Hoarsely, rubbing at her back and half-ignoring her. “Don’t cry. You’ll do great, B.”

Her throat caught on an ironic laugh. She wiped her cheeks, she pulled away to look at him – tears were shining on his grizzled face, his smile was forced and broken, his eyes were shut so tight his temples creased. She pressed her hands against his whiskered cheeks, whispering desperately.

_“Varric. Look at me.”_

He did, he _did._ His bloodshot eyes came open, and on seeing her she heard his shattered sob. His lips were red and twisted. His upper lip was slick with snot. His head was slowly shaking. He was croaking, _No. No_.

She straddled him to bring their foreheads together, bumping, clumsy, painful. They squinted at each other through the blur of flowing tears. She choked and sobbed so hard, to speak was quite a struggle.

_“V, Varric I-…do this for me, c, can you? Please.”_

He shook his head again, and once again he mouthed a helpless _No,_ and something like, _don’t do this. Don’t do this to me._

_“Varric, please. Tell me that you love me, and just – just sit here. Please, just stay, just sit here.”_

If he were writing, he could pull it off with better grace.

Varric clutched her to his body like a drowning man, coarse hands that loved her fisted in the cloak her husband bought. He wailed into her bosom like a man bereaved, he screamed _I love you_ straight into her heart.

Bianca clutched his mangled hair and clenched her teeth. She was shaking. She longed to choke to death, or turn inside out, or fucking just-… ** _bleed._** Bleed straight through her skin and ears and eyes. Bleed until she soaked his bed and dripped beneath the boards that made his floor, and flooded all of Kirkwall and the world with crimson hell.

But Bianca was a mother now. What she longed to do no longer mattered.

She gently pried his fists away – he fought her, and he didn’t. She kissed his broken nose, she whispered mournful love and thanks between his pleading eyes.

And then she left him.

 

* * *

 

To his harm or credit, Varric did as he was asked – he sat there, and he stayed. The floorboards creaked beneath her boots. His bedroom door clicked softly when she shut it. The spirit hadn’t moved an inch – she stooped salt-faced to marvel at his human features once again, disappointed that she missed her only chance to meet him. She brushed messy strands of platinum out of his peaceful face and whispered gruffly, _“Take good care of him. You got that, blondie?”_

Varric’s manuscript was scattered on the floor – she had no time to sort it, but she gathered every page. As she plodded nearly-nude through Kirkwall’s muddy streets in dead of night, Bianca squeezed her lover’s last memento ‘gainst her broken heart and cried.

When Cole woke up, The Hanged Man was destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric's lullaby: [_Fish and Bird_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s44LKiMT87Q) by Tom Waits. Worth it for the voice!


	47. Posturing is Necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messages from the author! The author loves you! Hello!!!!
> 
> 1\. Important! We are establishing a new convention! From now on, a parenthesis/quote combo means the speaker is speaking in **Elvish**. Only characters who speak Elvish will understand this dialogue. Let's practice! When you see ("blahblahblah"), imagine yourself some beautiful-sounding, flowy, sexy elfspeek. 
> 
> Exercise A. Solas sucks up and apologizes: "Ar lath ma, ma vhenan. Ir abelas." = ("I love you, my heart. I'm sorry.")
> 
> Exercise B. Solas bangs his bald head in a doorway when no one is around: "GUH! **FENEDHIS LASA!** " = ("GUH! **WOLF FUCK!** ")
> 
> Exercise C. June rubs his face and groans between his fingers, scolding Solas for some perceived inadequacy. Cole and Veyla are watching.
> 
> June: _Sigh._ ("Brother dear, I fear the sands of time have made you daft.")
> 
> Veyla: "HUNH?! Cole, what'd he _say_!"
> 
> Cole: (Quietly) "I think he called him stupid, Pretty. ...Or a cat."
> 
> You've got it? What a relief for me! I studied Zoology, not Linguistics. We'll be using so much Elvish soon, I won't torture us with faking it.

* * *

 

Firelight outshone the sallow dawn that crept across the Frostback Mountains. For a long while, there was no speaking. Only gleaming metal clanking, aligned and re-aligned and re-aligned again. _Snap,_ and time, and **_snap,_** and time, and ** _SNAP!_**   Benumbed of mind and body as she was, Una’s Dalish instincts beat a rapid rhythm in her chest. Not protected here, but _trapped,_ a songbird trembling helpless in a shrinking cage. The closeness made her aura sticky, gloopy, thick.

All physical repulsions set aside, Una found it _very_ reprehensible, wearing her station’s flashy strength for all to see. She fought and won against the fine Orlesian gown that cinched and flowed, and _oh,_ had she fought this.

And yet, today the plate mail of the Inquisition served its purpose: it made an undeniable impression, a message men of polity would surely understand. She _looked_ awe-inspiring. She _felt_ absurdly boastful. She felt…male. She felt _human._

_‘Joke as you will; posturing is necessary.’_

She could hear him, she could see his subtle shrug. The memory was a rueful one, and yet it made the world-worn hero smirk. Una heard Leithara speak, but made no answer.

“Ser Rutherford is not so certain fivescore is enough, my lady. I counsel you to heed him.”

As if on cue they heard him barking orders in the snowy courtyard far below, syntax lost through panes of foggy glass. **_Snap_** , and time, and ** _SNAP!_** Twin cuisses now anchored The Inquisitor aground with rigid weight. Una shifted on her feet, awkward as a sandcat crossing mud. Her silent mind thanked Leithara for prompting biological relief – there would be no pissing now.

Mellina rapped her knuckles against Una's ringing chestplate. “Don’t you listen to my Cullycuds – he’s been in a ripe old mood all week. It _will_ work. Papa took us to the Landsmeet every year. Come midday, Denerim is _overrun_ with appellants! Ferelden’s _nobles_ may not care for you, m’lady, but her people love you still.” Bitterly, Mellina added: “ _We_ do not forget your sacrifice so _easily_ as that.”

Leithara groused. “Our lady is an _elf,_ Mellina.”

“Oh, as if it _matters,_  Lei. She’s the _Inquisitor_. Maker’s sake, she saved the whole of Thedas!”

The matron, squat and stern, glared ice from Una’s back. “So she is, and so she did, and human beings forget.”

“Oh sure - we’re _all_ brainless and ungrateful, just like all City Elves are sour old crones with grudges and bad teeth.”

“…Ser Rutherford is not a fool at _strategy,_ my lady. Heed his advice. I would not see you harmed.”

 _Scoff!_ “You think you’re so clever! Where’s _your_ man, then?”

 _Oh,_ how sorely Una missed these women – their caring hands, their haughty talk, the way they clucked and fussed. How lovingly Leithara’s aging grip held Una’s plated waist as raven-haired Mellina crouched in front. Fingers strong with washmaid’s tasks made slow and steady work of fastening the rattling latches that ran up Una’s sides, each one locking with those ringing metal snaps that split the empty chamber air and echoed in the suit. Mellina surely seemed to know her way around a suit of armor.

The plate was cold as ice; it chilled Una’s flesh straight through her padded gambeson. And _heavy,_ it was heavy _._ It added to the press of sorely needed sleep. Una was so tired and weak, to stand against Mellina’s fastening force was quite a struggle. Another shove, another _snap -_ among beloved women, the Inquisitor allowed herself to stumble. As wordless Leithara held her fast, Mellina stood to press a steeling kiss on Una’s ashen cheek and say, “It comes, my lady. It comes.”

Una’s nodding forehead found Mellina’s shoulder, and it stayed there. She whispered near-on catatonic gratitude as Mellina stroked her crown of golden braids. Her clouded mind rejected further thoughts on tactics; she simply stood there, armor-bogged and trembling in Mellina’s arms, waiting for her druggist to come rushing up the stairs with poison’s liquid wits.

 

* * *

 

Denerim’s mid-eastern bridge rode high o’er Drakon River on great pylons made of stone. Her three sisters were the footbridge sort: Well-swept paths where children stopped to hoot and point at turtles on the way to market with their mothers, where secret lovers met to kiss beneath the moon.

 _This_ bridge, ten times the width and elevation, was the sort of structure armies crossed and broke-souled people jumped from. In place of steps, its access was by ramp. Though the morning light was only just beginning, an ox-drawn merchant’s cart came trundling rough and creaky toward the market to the north. (In truth, the bloke was running late; for merchants, this day’s crowds necessitated _very_ early rising.)

The beasts of burden left manure in their wake. For Landsmeet’s sake, hence came a pimple-faced young fellow tasked with the custodianship of this great bridge and all surrounding cobbles. Though twiggy-armed, he worked his mucking shovel with a gumptious stone-on-metal ringing racket.

The boy was wise enough to fling the oxshit off the _seaward_ side, lest he interrupt the armed and thoughtful-looking elfmage perched upon the western railings. A’top his robes, the stranger wore a form-fit armored surcoat; white-and-silver chevrons scaled from just beneath his earlobes to his ankles. A staff of blackest metal blazed upon his back, looking positively _wicked_ in the rising sun.

Mother spoke the truth – The Landsmeet brought the _strangest_ people to the city. “Mind your eyes and tongue,” she clucked in warning as she handed off his knotted gingham lunch and pecked his forehead with a kiss.

And now he rushed to do as mother said: to clean the bridge and _leave._

“Solas? C – _yawwnnh!_ Can you hear her yet?”

The lad was so consumed with briskly minding his own business, he started when a girl began to speak – not to him, but to the elfmage at his back. Though the morning air was still and Drakon River’s murmur faint with being far below, the bridgeboy never heard her coming. Her voice was accented and high, her boisterous yawn was squeaky-shrill. Something about it – her yawn – made him swallow in a tightening throat.

All thoughts of wrapping up and fleeing left his mind. He _lingered_ now, stealing glances as he mucked imaginary shite and eavesdropped on the pair. Her clothes were strange – coarse-stitched weaves of forest green and snug-fit hides that left her suntouched arms and shoulders bare. Though mother dear would box his ears for chewing lip over an elf, well. Chew away he did.

The mage yawned in response, nearly silent ‘gainst his open hand. He sounded kinder than his rigid angles made him seem. “Not yet, _da’halla._ Soon. Our tea?”

“He wouldn’t give me it.”

“You mean to say _would not give it to me._ You showed the pendant and your coin, _da'len?_ ”

She nodded and insisted with impatience. “He says four lumps will _‘rot my little rabbit teeth.’_ ”

 _Chuckle._ “So it would. Assure him that the sugared tea is not for you. Thank him for his forethought, and do not neglect to pay him.”

She yipped, indignant. “I’m not _stupid!_ I already _paid_ him!”

Spoken in the tone of one quite comfortable with lecturing and being right. “One pays first in Antiva, Veyla. In Ferelden and Orlais _,_ one does not pay ‘til services are rendered. While it is no great matter, you would do well to heed custom in your travels. Go quickly now, before we yawn ourselves to death.”

The elfgirl took a breath as if to argue – at the mage’s mildest glance, she hushed and made her way back down the bridge’s ramp. His morning’s fancy gone, the lad shouldered his shovel with intent to man his station in the patch of grass beside the southern ramp.

And then, still facing west, the elfmage spoke. Though he used a language just as foreign as his clothes, his kind intent was clear.

(“Ah, the industry of human youth. How the dungbeetles of Thedas surely curse your mother’s womb.”)

Young fingers tightened on the shovel, footsteps stilled. Though frightened, the young man turned around –it would be rude not to. The elf was looking towards the castle, not at him.

“…Ser?”

“Well met, young man. Your dedication is commendable. In all my days, Theirin’s bridge has never been so spotless.”

“Th – Thank you, ser.”

“May your life be ever-peaceful, child.”

With that, the boy resumed his station on the south end of the bridge. Mere minutes passed before the pair walked down his ramp with steamy little earthen cups. When the boy blurted “G, good day!”, the elfmage simply nodded. His morning crush was peppering the mage with questions, but she stopped long enough to grin at him and chime hello.


End file.
